


The Quintessence of Dust

by ganseys_mint_plant



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Southern Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-09 02:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11660190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganseys_mint_plant/pseuds/ganseys_mint_plant
Summary: In this alternative setting of Shakespeare's most beloved tragedy, Hamlet attempts to cope with the death of his father, the remarrying of his mother to his uncle, and the hideous gossip of his hometown. When he is visited by his father's ghost, he is overcome with revenge and insanity. His father's plea for justice will be his own undoing.





	1. Prologue

The rain arrived as the guests did.

It was the predictable Southern afternoon rain. The storm would be gone in an hour, taking the tears of the assembled crowd with it.

Center stage was his mother and his uncle. He had never seen his mother look so old. The black velvet dress she wore flattered her figure and reminded everyone that she was barely past forty, but her clenched jaw and red eyes couldn't be hidden by makeup or a lacy veil. His uncle wore a new, hand-tailored black pinstripe suit that would create an illusion of competence for the board in the slew of upcoming business meetings. For an sudden death, their outfits looked remarkably well-put together.

The crowd had filled in around them, packed under umbrellas, hoping to get one last glimpse of the eternal resting place of the great Charles Hamlet Sr. Most were strangers to the immediate Hamlet family-- factory workers or former secretaries. Their whispers told of brief interactions with the deceased and memories that would endure for the lifetime of the living.

Charles Hamlet Jr. stood off to the side, watching the stoic entrance of the reverend who had supervised the last fifty years of the Hamlets' religious experiences. Reverend Polonius opened his Bible to a well-worn page. A young girl rushed forward to cover with Reverend with an umbrella, as he began to preach on Hamlet Sr.'s numerous accomplishments and legacy in their small town. The girl's eyes watched Hamlet Jr. He didn't notice her gaze, but she could read and interpret his brokenness like her father could read Gospel-- with eloquence and ease.

The rain had never bothered Hamlet. Growing up, he waited by the window for the first sign of rain. As soon as the first drops began to fall, he'd bolt out the door to experience even the briefest moment of it's coolness. Everyday, his nanny would snatch him back up threatening pneumonia and his father's belt, but not without giving him a minute of fun.

Today, he appreciated it because it hid his lack of tears. He was empty.

His best friend-- his father, gone in a few moments.

He had been a thousand miles away, living a life that should have killed him. The night of his father's death had been a blur of ecstasy and hard liquor, ending with a phone call he had barely been able to hear over the thud of the bass and his own heartbeat. He'd spent the three hour flight home in the airplane's bathroom, popping aspirin, recovering from the night before. He was tossed back to the realities of small town life as soon as the wheels hit the tarmac. One of their three nameless servants had been waiting with a black car outside baggage claim, ready to take him back to the estate. No one had greeted him at the door, though the house was swarming with lawyers, accountants, and indifferent family members.

Hamlet was home, but not the one they wanted to see.

Everyone else's tears picked up as a man that Hamlet had never met before began an improvised speech about his father's camaraderie in the war.

Hamlet's eyes were drawn to his mother, mascara somehow still immaculate. Maybe she didn't have anymore tears either. They had barely spoken in the five days he had been home. There were too many details to attend to.

His uncle was too close to her. One arm had snaked around her waist, pulling her close. She leaned her head into his arm.

Claudius was three years younger than his brother, more gifted in every way, with the exception of geniality. Hamlet's uncle smile exuded dark intentions and malice. But he had the intelligence and looks to make up for what his older brother got away with on charm.

The entire town knew what Hamlet Sr. did not. No one had the heart to tell him, not even Hamlet. Not that it would have changed anything or stopped his heart from giving out. At least he had died under the illusion of a faithful wife and loyal son. Part of Hamlet hoped what he had seen had been just a misinterpretation of innocent affection between a brother and sister-in-law. Something could have changed in his three year absence.

But it was confirmed in a single gesture, seemingly harmless to those who hadn't heard the rumors.

Grief gave way to rage as Claudius slipped his hand into Gertrude's. Her hand seized for a moment, frozen with outstretched fingers. But her eyes fell upon the coffin which would soon be placed in the family crypt. Relief, of all things, fell across her face.

She was free, for the first time in twenty five years. Freedom for Gertrude was the possibility of love.

Her fingers relaxed, squeezing a gentle affirmation to her lover.

Hamlet turned, needing no more reasons to stay, weaving his way through gravestones and monuments to get back to his car.

Thunder cracked as the car door slammed shut.

No one knew he was gone.


	2. Act I, Scene i

It was around eleven when Tia finally reached Elsinore. She had made a brief stop at home, only to drop her things and give a passing greeting to her father. She'd been in town for only a few hours, but she had heard enough to grow concerned. No one in town had seen Hamlet since he made a dramatic departure from his mother and uncle's wedding.

The iron-wrought gates to Elsinore were locked, but a light flickered on the porch of the mansion, a few hundred yards down the road. She flashed her headlights to grab the men on watch's attention. It was an old tradition, but Elsinore had been guarded by the same family for over two hundred years, though the estate had been shuffled from one rich man to another multiple times. No one cared to fire them, and they didn't care to leave. So nothing changed.

A figure on the porch rose, a lantern bobbing from side to side as they approached. She pulled the car off to the side of the road and climbed out, greeting the guard at the gate.

"Miss Tia, home from the war!" Marcus cheered.

She smiled at the sound of his sweet Southern drawl. "California, actually. Haven't made it to the war yet."

Marcus fiddled with the lock on the gate, deftly finding the correct key from a massive key ring. "You've missed quite a bit."

"So I've heard."

The lock fell away and the gates of Elsinore creaked open.

"First Mr. Hamlet, then the weddin', and then the spirit--"

"A spirit?" she interjected. Marcus raised the lantern to his face. He'd grown older in her absence; two teeth had rotted to black and more lines had been etched into his face, both feature extenuated by his wild grin.

"Oh, yes. Benny and I 'ave both seen it. Most terrifying thing I've ever seen."

"I didn't take you as the type that scared easy." Marcus waved her along back towards the house.

"You ain't seen this spirit, miss. I swear it's the ghost of Mr. Hamlet." Tia froze.

"Who else knows about this?"

"Well, no one yet, 'cept you. We don't want to offend the family, see. But it's been here for two nights now." Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You don't believe me?"

"I'm not a spiritual person," Tia said. "Dead is dead."

As they approached the porch, Tia could make out the rough shape of Benny, Marcus' son, knees to his chest in a rocking chair. It was just a little over 75 degrees, so it wasn't the cold that had him hunched over.

"Benny is more 'fraid than me; thought your headlights were it comin' back," Marcus said, following her stare. "Thinks the spirit's come to kill us."

"Why else would he come?" Benny said. "Heaven's a perfectly good place. He's come back for revenge."

"Why would he need revenge?" Tia questioned. 

"That's enough gossipin'," Marcus scolded. "The family is asleep, Miss Tia. Though I'm sure you'd be welcome to stay on the couch for the night."

"Even Hamlet?"

"Haven't heard much from him of late," Benny interjected. "'cept the bangin' comin' from the attic."

"Well, I'm interested in this ghost of yours," Tia said, taking a seat in the rocking chair next to him. "Do you think he'll come tonight?"

"He usually shows 'round dawn," Marcus said. "You're welcome to wait up with us, miss."

The conversation fell silent, allowing for the sounds of Elsinore to grow around them. 

The creak of their rocking chairs against the ancient porch. Cicadas in the swampland surrounding them. Wind shaking the willow trees. The mansion sighing into the humidity of the night. 

She had spent countless nights camping out on this very porch, slapping mosquitoes away until exhaustion overcame her. Hamlet at her side whispering the fables and secrets of Elsinore. It was a land built on lies; betrayals, family rivalries, murder, cheating. 

Before Hamlet Sr. had climbed his way through the company ladder, Elsinore, a former plantation, had been rotting away in the hands of an elderly daughter of a slave owner. The house was on the verge of ruin, the arable farm land gone to seed, and the surrounding woods was where teenage delinquents earned their stripes. The way Hamlet told the story, it killed her to sell Elsinore to his father, a prosperous black man; three days after signing all the paperwork, the old woman had a heart attack and died. 

Hamlet Sr. restored the land and house to its former elegance. The younger Hamlet would have liked to believe that he bestowed Elsinore with honesty, but Tia saw the truths that he refused to. Hamlet Sr. was ambitious to the point of self-destruction. He refused to accept defeat or wrongdoing. He was a far-cry from a family man.

But Hamlet loved him unconditionally. He loved him for the occasional Saturday spent playing catch in the backyard and the expensive gifts purchased as apologies for extended business trips. He loved him as every naive six year old boy loves his father.

The night passed slowly, with hourly offers of whiskey from a flask. She craved the dawn.

"What time is it?" she finally asked.

"'round five," Marcus said. Both of them had grown visibly anxious in the last half hour. The rhythm of Marcus' rocking had increased and Benny had grown remarkably still, eyes focused on the eastern horizon.

Heat lightning cracked suddenly and inexplicably. The trio jumped in unison. 

"We look like a buncha fools," Marcus laughed uneasily. Tia looked over at him.

Standing just beyond him on the porch was a figure-- hazy and pale, like a poorly taken picture. 

"Marcus," Tia gasped, stumbling out of her chair. The figure locked eyes with her.

It was the exhaustion.

It was the stress.

It was the worry.

It was anything but Charles Hamlet Sr.

Their gaze was locked. All that existed in this moment was them. He slowly raised one arm.

Lightning cracked again, and she flinched. He was gone when she looked back.

"You saw that right?" Tia exclaimed, whirling back on the men's stunned expressions.

"I told you," Marcus said, shaking his head.

"We have to tell Hamlet," Tia said.

"He won't believe us," Marcus sighed, glancing at Benny. His eyes were still drawn to the place where the old man had appeared.

Echoes of thunder shook the house. The horizon began to glow with a light pink. 

"He'll listen to me," Tia said, stepping towards the front door. A cold passed through her and she looked back at Benny. The ghost had reappeared and stood before Benny, but still stared at Tia, with an unrelenting intensity. "What do you want us to do?"

The ghost's head tilted to one side ever so slightly in question. Before Tia could respond, he began seizing, grasping at his chest. Instinctively, she moved to steady him, but her hands went through the air where he should have been. Sunlight began to inch its way onto the porch.

Her hands stayed outstretched, hoping that he'd reappear. That she'd get the chance to question him more. 

No one moved for an eternal moment.

In the silence, they collectively made a decision.

Tia found her words first. 

"We have to tell Hamlet."


	3. Act I, Scene ii

Hamlet contemplated the empty table. The white linen tablecloth that stretched the dining room table was speckled with new stains that was sure to give someone quite the headache. Their distribution was uneven-- the area around his mother and Ophelia was still spotless, but Polonius' place gave the appearance that he had eaten without the assistance of a plate. The old man was a constant headache to Hamlet but his constant presence on Sundays intensified the pain he caused Hamlet.

Somehow, he had ended up at Hamlet's right hand, separating him from Ophelia. Laertes, Ophelia's doting brother, sat to his left, and his mother just beyond him. Claudius had spent the entire Sunday dinner staring at Hamlet from his place at the opposite head of the table. His mother and Ophelia had cleared the table, but he couldn't remember how long ago that had been.

Grief and humidity dulled his mind. 

"Hamlet."

Paying attention was no longer an option. He flicked his eyes up. His view of his uncle was partially obscured by tangles of brown curls.

He needed a haircut. 

"We need to discuss your future plans as well," his uncle said. 

"As well?" Hamlet asked. His eyes fell upon Ophelia. Her cheeks flushed. Her modesty was once cute. Now, it just bothered him. 

"Laertes is returning to university in the fall," Polonius informed him. He beamed proudly at his son. "Your fat-- uncle is generously assisting us financially with this semester. Serving the Lord is spiritually rewarding, but unfortunately, not financially. But He says to trust in--"

"It's  _our_ pleasure," Claudius smiled, his hand covering Gertrude's. His eyes never left Hamlet. Everything he did, he did intentionally. Every time he touched Hamlet's mother, it was an intentional wound in Hamlet's chest. "But Hamlet, I'm not sure returning to school is the best option for you. The semester begins when? Two weeks?"

Hamlet flicked his eyes to his mother. She would be no help; she was entirely submissive to Claudius. With his father, she had voice. Claudius had taken it with the exchange of their vows.

"Yes, but--"

"We're not sure you're quite recovered from the events of the last few months. I mean, the black clothes, in the dead of summer? The time for mourning has passed, Hamlet."

"I disagree; your wedding was only two weeks ago."

"Hamlet," Gertrude snapped. 

"Maybe this is a conversation meant for closed doors," Polonius interjected. "I'll take a raincheck on that brandy, Claudius."

"I'd like that very much," Claudius smiled.

Polonius and Laertes rose, buttoning their suits up. Hamlet looked to Ophelia, still seating. 

"Text me," she mouthed. He blinked slowly in a promise that they both knew he'd break. She'd patiently wait for a text from him that he'd never send. She'd send a goodnight text and he'd send a "nite <3" or something similar in response. They'd been playing the same game all summer. 

Polonius escorted his children out, shutting the dining room doors behind himself. Part of Hamlet believed that the old man was still standing on the other side of the door, ear pressed against it to catch the argument that was about to ensue.

He smiled at the idea, and leaned his head on his hand. He tried to play bored. Anything to send Claudius over the edge. 

Claudius stood, rounding his chair to lean on the back of it. 

"I am well aware of what you get up to at the fancy New York college of yours."

"You don't think I've changed over this summer?"

"If anything, I think your attitude has gotten worse."

"Maybe it'll improve in your absence."

Claudius' head whipped to look to Gertrude. His mother shrugged her shoulders, scratching at the tablecloth's embroidery. Her passivity made him smile this time. 

Hamlet waited patiently as Claudius composed himself. 

"I want nothing more than for you to think of me as your father," Claudius said. "I know I can never replace Charles."

"Good."

" _But_ , you need to move on. Every boy loses his father. Your father and I lost ours when he was 16 and I 13. But we had jobs to do. We had a family to support. You have no responsibilities--"

"Especially now that I'm not going to school."

"Oh, no," Claudius said, shaking his head. "You're the natural heir to our fortune, Hamlet. You need to learn how to run a business. But first, you need to get over this nasty phase of yours."

"Statistically speaking, I likely have about twenty two years left in this phase."

"Hamlet, what on earth are you talking about?" Gertrude sighed.

"Well, the average life expectancy of a male in the US is 76 and you're what, Claudius, 54?"

"Enough." Gertrude pushed her chair back and stood, smothing out the front of her Sunday best. "Whether you like it or not, Hamlet, I am married to Claudius. You live under our roof, so you will respect the both of us. If Claudius says you're to learn the family business, then that is what you will do. Do you understand?"

Hamlet bit the tip of his thumb, contemplating a mirade of witty responses. But despite all her misgivings, he still respected his mother too much to open his mouth. 

Claudius exited, unwilling to wait for Hamlet's acquiescence. 

Gertrude turned to follow.

"You said 'I am married to Claudius,'" Hamlet observed.

"And?"

"You never said you loved him."

"It's the same thing, Hamlet."

"No. No, it's not."

"I'm not going to argue the semantics of my marriage."

"It's simply really."

"Haven't you learned that nothing is simple in life, Hamlet?"

"Do you love him?"

Her jaw clenched, something she hadn't seen since his father's funeral. 

"It's just a question."

"Of course." 

She slammed the door behind herself. The noise reminded him of the emptiness of the room.

He hated the way he hurt her. But he couldn't help it. He felt driven to remind her of her betrayal. She had left his father and him. The affair was one thing. That could be dismissed as a silly rumor. For some reason, he could stomach that. But this-- this public display of their shallow affection sickened him.

Now he really felt like he had nothing. No father. An absent mother. No university.

Just him.

Alone.

He would trade places with his father in a heartbeat. He was useless. A waste of the family name. A waste of three years of overpriced out-of-state tuition. A waste of Ophelia's affections.

His thoughts drifted to a numbed oblivion, his eyes focusing on a candle in front of him. The flame still danced around the wick. He stretched his hand out, his palm slowly descending towards the tip of the flame. 

He wanted to feel it. Feel something.

Because he couldn't feel his mother's confliction, or Ophelia's love, or Claudius' rage. It all bounced off him. It didn't hurt anymore. It just was. 

The doors to the dining room flew open. 

He snatched his hand back, cradling it to his chest. It burned but he didn't want to see the damage.

Tia stood in the doorway, grinning.

"Tia?"

"Hamlet." She had always been the kind of human that glowed, but she was radiant today.

He flew out of his chair, picking her up in his arms and swinging her around. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked, setting her down but not letting her go.

"I've got a month of leave before I ship out," she said. "I've been assigned to an aircraft carrier for a year."

"That's. . ."

". . . good," she finished. 

"It's been three years," Hamlet said. Her smile and embrace slipped.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"I'm sorry you have to go back."

She looked him over.

"You're still in black."

"Traditional Southern mourning period was one year when a child lost a parent."

"Hamlet."

"It's true."

"I-- I don't doubt that."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since last night. But I've been asleep in the guest room since five."

"In the morning?"

"I have something to tell you," Tia said. "You should sit."

"I'm just fine, thank you."

She took a deep breath, but still faultered. 

"Whatever it is, Tia, I assure you it can't be any worse than the way things are now."

"Your father," she started. "We saw him last night."

"I know you missed the funeral, Tia, but I assure you, my father is dead."

"No, no, I know," she said. "And you have to believe me, because I didn't even believe it at first. Benny and Marcus told me they had seen a ghost of your father the last two nights. So I stayed up with them and waited. And then. . . I saw him, Hamlet. Your father. It was unmistakable."

He paced the length of the dining room table. "Where?"

"On the front porch. You believe me?"

Hamlet frowned. "I have no reason not to."

"You have every reaon not to believe me," Tia laughed, half-hysterically. "It sounds crazy."

"It is crazy. But it could also be true. And if it is true, I have to see him. I have to see my father again."


	4. Act I, Scene iii

**Text Message from Hamlet:**

_**Goodnight <3** _

The notification had been sitting on her screen for twelve hours now. She wanted more than a vague goodnight and emoji heart. She wanted him to talk to her.

She had had more faith in their relationship when he had been in New York, doing whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted. She believed in them then. Now, she wasn't sure. 

If Hamlet was going to be staying home this year, it meant he'd be closer than ever. And maybe they just couldn't work like that. High school was over and clearly sweethearts was all they were ever meant to be. 

**Ophelia: We need to talk.**

Immediately, Hamet began typing.

"Who is that?" Laertes sang, dropping his final suitcase by her side in the hall. 

"None of your business." Ophelia clicked the phone off, holding it to her chest. 

"How is the young prince Hamlet?"

"He's a far cry from a royalty," Ophelia said, surveying her brother's mountain of posessions that threatened to take over the entryway.

"The Hamlets are the closest thing this town has to a monarchy. We might as well put a crown on their heads," he said. Laertes frowned. "You know I don't like him."

"Have you ever?" Ophelia asked.

"I don't like any of them."

"Gertrude was the closest thing we had to a mother," Ophelia said, dropping her voice to a whisper. Her father tended to lurk around corners, unseen until you made yourself guilty. Gertrude's maternal role in their lives wasn't something he encouraged. 

"Doesn't mean I have to like her," Laertes said. "What she and Claudius did was sick. We all know it."

She attempted to catch a glimpse of her phone.

**Text Message from Hamlet**

"Ophelia," Laertes placed his hands on her arms, demanding her attention. "I know you love him. But he's bad news. Don't let him break your heart."

 _Too late_ , she thought.

"I'll be  _fine_ ," she insisted, gently pulling his hands away. "You focus on having fun."

"I don't think they allow that in medical school."

Their father descended the stairs, as if on cue. 

"Good, you're both here," he cheered. "Laertes, I'm sad to see you go, but I look forward to seeing what you achieve this year."

Laertes glanced at Ophelia. That was far too short of a goodbye from their verbose father.

"That being said, I'd like to give you some free advice." The siblings smiled at one another. There it was. Polonius launched into a monologue of aphorisms and Biblical rhetoric.

"And finally," Polonius concluded, "be slow to anger. Your hothead does you no good, son. Think before you act. Rash decisions get us nowhere but hell."

"Thank you," Laertes said, embracing his father. "But I should get going."

Laertes turned on Ophelia. "Remember what I said." He kissed her on the cheek, and began grabbing bags and boxes. Polonius assisted, but waved Ophelia's attempt to help off. They loaded up Laertes' ancient stationwagon and waved him off from the front porch.

As he peeled out of the driveway, she could see the gates to Elsinore just across the street. Hamlet was in there somewhere. 

"What was Laertes speaking to you about?" Polonius asked, as he let Ophelia back in the house.

"Nothing."

"It hardly seemed like 'nothing,'" Polonius said. 

"It was concerning Hamlet, if you must know," Ophelia said, making for the stairs. 

"Ophelia." It was a command. She stopped her ascent and looked back at her father. "Do you love him?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" she laughed. Polonius was awaiting an answer. "Yes, I do."

"And you're not at all concerned about his erratic behavior as of late? The inappropriate way he addresses his parents?"

"He's greiving."

"He's being immature," Polonius corrected. "And what was Laertes' advice?"

"That I should stop talking to him."

"I agree."

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't want you seeing Hamlet anymore. Or texting or twittering or whatever it is you're doing."

"That's not fair--"

"Ophelia, need I remind you of the importance of obediance?"

She shut her mouth. There would be no winning this argument. Polonius left her on the stairs. 

**Text Message from Hamlet:**

_**Can't right now. Talk later.** _


	5. Act I, Scene iv

Though Marcus had assured him that the ghost wouldn't arrive until dawn, Hamlet insisted on waiting up all night. Tia sat at his side, wringing her hands, until exhaustion over took her. Usually, her nervous energy would have bothered him, but he had fixed his eyes on the horizon. Just beyond the gates, he could see a single light on at Polonius' house.

He wanted to believe it was Ophelia, waiting for a response. She was determined to see the good in him. He wasn't sure it was still there anymore. 

Breaking things off with her would be the kindest thing to do. 

But part of him liked dragging her along. Liked waiting for her desperate texts. Liked her concerned stares that he could feel from across the room.

The night passed slowly. A storm began to roll in around four in the morning, and the first crack of thunder jolted Tia awake.

"Is he here?" she mumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

He shook his head. Marcus passed him a scuffed-up flask. He took a sip of the liquor inside; the flavor was so muddled he couldn't figure out what kind it was. 

"You're sure it was my father?" Hamlet asked again.

"I knew your father like he was my own," Marcus insisted. "It's his spirit hauntin' us."

The southern accent that most of the town boasted had been bred out of the Hamlets. His mother's ocassionally reappeared when she was stressed or trying to relate to the locals. Hamlet couldn't do it if he tried. But Marcus was a prime exhibit of the drawls and lilts. It was a warm dialect-- slow and smooth like molasses. 

Benny was noticably absent from tonight's watch. Marcus had mumbled an excuse about him feeling ill, but Tia had explained how shaken he was over the ghost. 

Lightning danced across the sky, briefly illuminating the empty forest surrounding them. Hamlet began to feel uneasy himself. Something wasn't right, but he didn't want to seem afraid in front of Tia. 

He looked back to the front gates, trying to focus. 

Breaking through the trees, a bolt of lightning hit the middle of the lane leading to the house. 

The trio mumbled their own set of expletives, muted by the thunder that shook the ground. In the smoke that rose from the burned ground surrounding the place, a green glow began. The figure formed slowly, beginning from the bottom and building upwards. 

"That's him," Tia said, with relief. Hamlet broke into a run, practically falling down the stairs. "Wait--"

He fumbled in the pocket of his coat for the switchblade he'd packed just in case.

"Who are you?" he demanded as he skidded to a stop. 

It was clearly his father. He was dressed in the same suit his mother had buried him in. There was a gold cross necklace around his neck, the chain just barely visible beneath the tie that seemed to strangle him. He was paler than the body had ever been-- even before morticians had gotten their hands on him. And his shoes were the same shoes he had worn everyday for the five years-- and the same style and color as the pair he had worn before that. 

It was his father. Of that much he was sure.

The figure raised one arm, with an open palm, and slowly beckoned him forward.

"He wants you to go with him," Tia softly said from behind him.

Hamlet flicked the blade open.

"Where are we going?" 

The ghost turned in response, walking into the forest.

Hamlet followed without hesitation. 

He could hear Tia whispering to Marcus, probably deliberating on whether or not they should follow. He hoped they wouldn't.

The rain continued, and without the shelter of the porch, he realized just how heavily it was falling. 

"Where are we going?" he asked again. The ghost ignored his question and began to walk faster.

They walked for five more minutes before he couldn't stand it anymore.

"No more." Hamlet stopped. He pointed the knife out a little further, trying to muster confidence. "I won't go any further."

The ghost stopped, turning around with a slight look of amusement. 

"Who are you?" 

"I am your father, Hamlet," the ghost said. 

" _What_ are you?"

"I am trapped."

"Trapped?"

"In purgatory. In limbo. My fate cannot be decided until all is set right in this world."

"What are you talking about?"

"My death was not supposed to happen yet. I was taken too soon."

"I-- I don't understand."

"Murder, Hamlet, murder."

Hamlet fell to his knees, letting the blade fall in front of him. 

"Who?" he asked, looking up at the spirit. 

"You know."

"Claudius."

The ghost nodded.

"What do I have to do?"

"You know."

"No, I don't."

"My death must be avenged, Hamlet."

"I can't kill him-- I hate him, I do, but I can't kill him."

He stumbled to his feet. Every part of him shook from fear and the cold.

"I'm going crazy," he insisted, for the benefit of himself. "I've gone insane." 

"You know the truth, Hamlet. I was the only thing keeping Claudius from the life he always wanted. The business. Your mother. The only thing stopping him was me."

"It was a heart attack."

"It was poison."

The ghost looked to the east. There was a faint glow beginning.

"I have to go."

"But I still have more questions--"

"Do what I've asked, Hamlet. While Claudius lives, I suffer."

The ghost turned it's back on Hamlet, dissipating into the fog gathering on the ground. 

Hamlet snatched the knife up, cleaning the blade on his sleeve. 

He wouldn't do anything until he had confirmed Claudius' guilt. But he wouldn't let him get away with this.

"Tia!" Hamlet shouted. "Marcus!" 

Alone, Tia approached from behind a tree. She was as soaked as he was.

"What did he say?" Tia asked.

"Claudius murdered my father," Hamlet said.

Tia's jaw dropped.

"You cannot saying anything to anyone; do you understand?" She nodded uneasily. "Swear?"

"I swear," Tia said. "You need to tell the cops."

"No, no." If the cops got involved, he'd never get the chance to kill Claudius. And if he was guilty, then seeing Claudius dead would be the only way he'd ever be satisfied. "I want to make sure its true before I do anything."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"I don't know yet," Hamlet snapped. "This is all a little overwhelming."

Tia took a step back.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. 

He held the knife out. "Swear. Swear like when we were kids."

"You're kidding," she said. "I still have the scars--"

He pressed the knife to his palm, cutting just deep enough to draw blood.

"Tia, he's trapped. He can't rest until Claudius is brought to justice."

"And whose justice will that be? Is this your revenge or his?"

Hamlet snatched her palm. He looked at her for confirmation. She didn't fight, so he swiped the knife across her palm and pressed their hands together.

"I'm going to need your help."

* * *

They never had the chance to have a "love at first sight" moment. He had always been in her life, an ever-present figure. 

Ophelia could remember the first day she felt something more than the love of a friend towards him. It was the summer before Laertes and Hamlet were going to be freshman in high school. The two boys had spent the summer fishing in hidden ponds, chasing girls downtown, and crafting vulgar jokes under the stars. It was the first summer that she hadn't spent with him. As much as Laertes saw Hamlet, Ophelia never did. It was the first day of school; Gertrude would drive them to the county high school first, then to the middle school for her. When the car pulled up in front of their houes, Hamlet stuck his head out the passenger side window, and looked past Laertes for the first time. He looked at her. He  _saw_ her. All of her-- old backpack and new dress. His face had lost the last of his childhood chub, his hair had grown out, the summer sun had pulled long-lost freckles out of his dark skin. And he was beaming, like there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be. It was hard not to fall for that smile alone. 

"Ophelia." He said her name like it was a relief. 

"Hello," she said. 

"You're blushing," Laertes deadpanned, pushing past her for the seat behind Hamlet. 

After that, the siblings traded places in Hamlet's heart. Ophelia captured his attention and affection, and Laertes took the scraps. 

When he said her name now, at 6:34 am, he said it in the same way.  _Oh-phelia._ With the same relief.

Only, the smile was different. It was wicked and malicious. 

"What are you doing in here?" Ophelia hissed, tugging her sheets up around her. It was far too hot to sleep with them on. He stood in the doorway of her room, dripping with water and mud. 

"You wanted to talk." 

_Is he mocking me?_

She pulled the sheets away from the bed, and rushed to the door, shutting it behind him.

"This is inappropriate," she said, taking a few steps back. "Why are you soaking wet?"

"Why do you want to talk?"

"Hamlet."

"Ophelia." He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her close. She put her hands up to catch herself, and they landed on his chest. His shirt was torn to shreds.

He stared at her like he was trying to memorize her face. His eyes seemed darker than usual, but she was too caught up in them to look away. It was like watching a horror movie; she couldn't look away, though it terrified her. 

"You're scaring me."

He laughed quitely at something only he understood. His features fell soft, like he meant to kiss her, but for once in her life, she just wanted him to go away. She wanted to go back to sleep. To wake up in the morning and laugh it off as a nightmare.

His eyes closed, and nodded, three times, like he was waking up himself. He pushed her back towards the bed and yanked the door open, fleeing down the stairs, with no regards for her father sleeping across the hall. She ran after him, watching him throw the main door open. It creaked slowly to a close.

And Hamlet was gone. 

 

 


	6. Act II, Scene i

Hamlet had been missing all morning, but Gertrude's maternal affection had a limit and Hamlet was pushing it. It was clear that she no longer had the influence she once did over him, and so it was time to bring someone else in to make sense of his demons.

Hamlet had never been an athlete in high school, but the football team (and by extention, the cheerleading squad) seemed to be his only friends in high school. Rosencratz and Guildenstern were the only ones who had answered her mass summons. They hadn't been able to escape the pull of small town living, and had gone to work the very fields that Hamlet would one day own. That was the cycle of living here: the son of a farmer one day became a farmer who gave birth to more sons to take over the farms. 

They arrived in Hamlet's not-unusual absence, and met her in Elsinore's garden. She liked to pretend to garden every once in awhile-- to put what she learned in  _Home and Garden_ magazines to use. When she got bored with the chore, some unseen gardener would take over the pruning and weeding, but for today, she was enjoying the sun. Claudius supervised from a shaded corner, with an iPad full of unread emails. 

She tossed her gloves off as the boys descended the backporch into the garden.

"It has been too long," she laughed, slipping into her Southern accent for the boys' sake. They greeted each other with dainty hugs from Gertrude and finger-breaking handshakes from Claudius. She offered them chairs near Claudius' corner and dived straight in.

"I know you boys are full aware of the--" She paused, for mixed reasons, "--challenges our family has faced in the last few months. Hamlet-- He's such a good boy. He's just a little lost without his father. And we can't seem to bring him back, for whatever reason. I-- We--" She reached for Claudius' hand and mustered a few tears, "--were hoping you might be able to get to the bottom of his strange behavior. Or at least help him have a little fun."

The men exchanged uneasy glances. The Hamlet family wasn't one you said "no" to, but they weren't the best people for the job. With the exception of likes on Facebook and the ocassional retweet, they hadn't interacted with Hamlet since graduation. That was how it happened with the lucky few who managed to escape the county. 

"If you're willing to help, we'd like to show our gratitude," Claudius added. "We understand this summer's drought has been hard on all of our farmers, so we'd like to assist your families with a bonus of sorts. I think you'll find it to be very generous."

And that was all it took. 

"Of course," Rosencratz smiled. "Anything for an old friend."

A servant appeared at Gertrude's side and whispered in her ear, "Hamlet has returned."

"Excellent," Gertrude said. "Please take our new friends to Hamlet."

The two rose and followed the servant back into the house, passing Polonius, dragging Ophelia by the arm towards them.

"Good heavens," Gertrude said, rushing to meet them. "Polonius, how kind of you to visit us today."

"I heard Hamlet was missing."

At the same time, the two said "I found him."

Claudius raised an eyebrow, and sat the iPad aside to watch the scene unfold. 

"He's home," Gertrude said, "but I appreciate your efforts."

"Then I've figure out why he's gone insane."

"He--" She sighed, unable to come to Hamlet's defense. "Fine, tell us why you think Hamlet's lost his mind."

Polonius pushed Ophelia forward.

Ophelia had been the daughter she never had, and Gertrude loved her like one. 

Ophelia's phone was cradled to her chest, and she looked shaken. 

"He's madly in love," Polonius said. "So mad, in fact, that he would risk his honor to pursue it."

"And where is your proof?" Claudius demanded. Gertrude could tell he found Polonius' theory has crazy as she did.

Polonius held his hand out, demanding Ophelia's phone. She kept a tight grip on it. Frustrated, he snatched it from her, and began the long process of scrolling through hundreds of mundane goodnight texts. 

"'Ophelia, tonight was the best night of my life. You make me so happy. I wish I didn't have to go back tomorrow. I wish that I could relive tonight over and over again. I wish I could--'" Polonius' face twisted in a mix of horrified emotions.

"That was from a long time ago," Ophelia snapped.

"Oh but what about the one from the day after the funeral?"

The girl's face fell.

"I think I get the picture," Claudius said. 

"I think Ophelia and I should speak in private. You don't mind, do you, reverend?" Gertrude put a hand on Ophelia's shoulder, pulling her towards the back lawn. She didn't need Polonius' permission anymore. 

When they were out of the men's earshot, she stopped them.

"Hamlet was with you this morning," Gertrude guessed. Ophelia's face broke, and tears-- genuine tears-- began to fall. She embraced the girl, rubbing circles on her back. It seemed just recently that she had done the same thing to seven-year old Ophelia, left out from boys' games because of skinned knees and a torn Sunday dress. 

"Tell me what happened."

Ophelia managed to recount Hamlet's demented appearance in her bedroom that morning without choking on sobs. 

"But he's been acting strange all summer," Gertrude said. "So why now?"

"He knew. Somehow he knew."

"Knew what, my dear?"

"That I was going to break up with him."

For the first time that morning, Gertrude was shocked. Not because it wasn't a logical thing to do, but because she saw too much of herself in Ophelia; neither of them had the spine to break the hearts of the men they loved. 

They had both loved Hamlets, and they both knew how hard it was to leave them. To leave the stupid smile, chocolate eyes, and the money. 

"And now I don't know what to do," Ophelia finished. "We haven't had a decent conversation in months. He hasn't told me he loved me in over a year. And-- And who knows what he was doing in New York. I didn't want to believe the rumors, but--"

"Okay," Gertrude said. "I don't think your father is correct. Your relationship isn't the reason for his behavior. But we should test it. At dinner tonight, we'll get you two alone. We'll watch and see how he behaves, and we'll be the judge."

"What do I have to do?"

"Just be yourself."

They started the walk back across the lawn, Gertrude with her arm around Ophelia.

It was curious how the best things in her life came from the deaths of other. She got Ophelia from the death of the girl's mother in childbirth. She got Claudius from Charles' death. The grieving had hurt, but what came from that almost made the tears and heartache worth it. 

That's what Hamlet couldn't see. Or maybe it was what he didn't have. He didn't find love after his father's death. He only found pain. And no amount of maternal love or advice could fill the void that Charles' death had created in his life. 

She stopped upon that realization, but waved Ophelia along. She pulled her sunhat off her head, and fanned herself with it.

"Oh, and Ophelia," Gertrude called after her. She turned around, looking slightly better than she had when she arrived.

"Sometimes we love people, but we don't know how to show it." She looked at the ground, trying to bring herself to tell the truth for once. "And we hurt them in the process."


	7. Act II, Scene ii

He had fallen into an endless technicolor dream. It had once been a reality, but he knew it was fantasy the moment he entered it. He sat between his mother and father, casting countless fishing lines into a bank. His mother sipped periodically from an bottomless glass of chardonnay. A bloody red sunset never really set on the horizon. The dream never really ended; it simply faded to black and he woke.

The alarm clock told him it was just a little past four and the sun told him it was the afternoon.

There was a knock at the door, and he sat up. His room was a disaster, the result of his early morning insanity, which he could only vaguely remember. 

"Come in," he said, his voice scratchy from screams and sleep.

Two heads peeked in from the door.

"Rosencratz and Guildenstern." Hamlet smiled. 

They took his smile as permission to enter the chaos. Their own smiles only faultered momentarily at the sight of him. Hamlet stole a glance at his own appearance; he still wore the shredded and muddy clothes from the previous night. He kicked the covers free and jumped to his feet to embrace them. Their posture was stiff, but they managed to wrap an arm each around Hamlet. 

"What a nice surprise," Hamlet said.

"Its been too long," Rosencratz nodded. In personality, they were indistinguishable, but Rosencratz was tall where Guildenstern was wide. In high school, Rosencratz had played offense and Guildenstern defense, and they were built accordingly. They still wore worn-out tshirts that had probably been free from some county fair or another, and jeans that any reasonable person of average affluence would have tossed in the garbage long ago. 

"But we heard you were staying home this year, so we thought we'd stop by," Guildenstern said. 

"Oh?" He had been home all summer-- why hadn't they stopped earlier? 

"We meant to go to the funeral," Guildenstern said.

"But we had to work, you know how it is," Rosencratz finished.

Hamlet tried to put on an understanding face, but couldn't muster it. These two had been the closest thing he had to best friends in high school, and he had noticed their absence.

"But my mom made you a casserole-- pork and greens I think," Guildenstern added.

"And I-- I wore black that day," Rosencratz said, with noticable hesitation. 

"So, how have you been?" Hamlet asked.

"Good, good." Guildenstern rocked back and forth on his feet, stealing glances at different parts of the room. Rosencratz fidgeted with the keyring clipped to his belt loop.

When the silence became unbearable, Hamlet offered, "I'm sorry about the crop this year; my uncle is trying to find a way to help."

"He's been more than generous," Rosencratz insisted. 

"Really," Guildenstern added. They exchanged a knowing glance with one another.

Claudius was a businessman; generosity wasn't a part of any lucrative business model. 

"What are you driving these days?" Hamlet asked, unclipping Rosencratz's keyring from his pants before the other man could stop him. He held up a BMW key fab. "A BMW?"

Claudius was also a BMW man; his father had been a Ford man, a preference that Hamlet had inherited.

"Been saving," Rosencratz said feebly.

"You too?" The BMW logo shined on Guildenstern's keyring as well. 

"And to think," Hamlet laughed, "I'm still driving my beater pickup. I guess farming is more profitable than I thought."

There was no response from either of them.

"You came on your own?" The two men nodded. "No, no, my mother and uncle asked you to come."

"Hamlet, we're--"

"Save the apologies."

He was a step ahead of Claudius now. 

Hamlet sat back on his bed, and put his head in his hands. 

"They're right. I haven't been right since my father died." He scrubbed his face, probably rubbing more dirt into it, and looked up. "I just need more time to grieve and process it. And I need you to tell them that." 

"That's it?" Rosencratz asked.

"Sure," Hamlet said. He grinned, his lips pulled as tight as they could go. "And you can even keep those damn BMWs he gave you."

There was another knock, even though the door was already open. Polonius appeared in the doorway, and passed the two men as they exited.

"You grace me with your presence, good reverend," Hamlet smiled, laying back on his bed.

"Friends of yours?" Polonius asked.

"Once upon a time," Hamlet sighed, closing his eyes. "How can I help you?"

"May I sit?" Hamlet waved a lazy hand, then reached for a book on his side table. He cracked it open to a random page. "My knees are failing me; never get old, Hamlet."

"Not just your knees; your eyes as well."

"Excuse me?" It wasn't an offending statement; it was a genuine question.

"And your ears too apparently."

"Are you looking forward to the show tonight?"

"Depends on the quality of the show."

"The play is _The Murder of Gonzaga_."

"Quality of the _show_. All plays are the same to me. Do you read, good reverend?"

"Depends on the book. The Bible, of course, and--"

"Hemingway?"

"No, not much of him, I'm afraid."

"'What is moral is what you feel good after. What is immoral is what you feel bad after.' Thoughts?"

"I'd beg to differ."

"Of course." Hamlet tore a page out of the book, crumpling it up and tossing it at the old man. Shock took over his expression as Hamlet rose. He leaned on the armrests of the chair Polonius had taken up, putting his face right in front of the reverend's. 

"What I'm about to do, good reverend, will be right in my book but wrong in yours."

"I should ask to take my leave from you," Polonius said.

"You cannot take anything else from me," Hamlet snarled. "All I have left is my life, and you will not take that too. Tell my uncle that. He will take no more from me."

"Hamlet!" Gertrude called from downstairs.

"The queen calls, and so I must take  _my_ leave," Hamlet said, pushing himself back from the old man.

Hamlet sprinted down the stairs, sliding down the last banister to his awaiting mother's horror. The hall had been filled with actors in matching black t-shirts, screenprinted with tacky clip art. 

"You will change."

"Of course, my queen."

"Excuse me?"

Before she could yell at him, the front door opened and Claudius entered, wearing the same suit he had worn to his brother's funeral. He froze at the sight of Hamlet.

"And there is our good king," Hamlet announced, calling the attention of the actors. "They say his crown could buy all of South Carolina and that his looks can charm even the purest of women." He looked down at his mother and mouthed "oops". "But what keeps them around is the--"

Gertrude pulled Hamlet down, digging her freshly polished nails into his arm. She dragged him into the room reserved for Claudius' home office. Claudius closed the door behind them.

"You've gone too far," Gertrude snapped.

"No, I haven't gone far enough," Hamlet said. "But you're--" He looked pointedly at Claudius, "--the one who kept me here."

"I understand you're in pain," Gertrude insisted.

He'd heard this speech too many times. He spun away from them, fuming. What could they say to make this better? What could they say to prove their innocence? What could they do to stop the hate he harbored for them in his heart?

Her voice rambled on, the same words in a different order with the same sadness but a different exasperation.

"I don't want you at dinner tonight," she finished. 

"Ger--"

"Let them talk, Claudius. I can't play hostess and mother at the same time tonight." Hamlet turned around. Gertrude waved him away. "Do what you want, Hamlet."

"That was always the intention," he sang, skipping out of the room. As he made his way to the stairs, the crowd of actors and stage hands cleared a path for him. At the base of the stairs stood the director, just who Hamlet wanted to see.

He caught the director by the arm and guided him up the stairs without an explanation. 

The director was the high school theater teacher by day and local theater director by night. His life was consumed by the arts; he was a dedicated craftsman whose passion for strict interpretation of the greatest theaterical works could only be overcome by his financial greed. Hamlet had learned this in his sophomore year of high school when he bought himself out of a production of Arthur Miller play by slipping the aging man a few hundred dollar bills. 

"Hamlet," the director greeted him when Hamlet finally released him. The din of the crowd was barely audible, which meant their conversation would be as well.

"You're performing  _The Murder of Gonzaga_?"

"Yes, a classic."

"I've recently taken up playwriting."

"Oh?"

"A coping mechanism," Hamlet lied. "I'd like to add some additional lines to the show."

"I couldn't--"

"Of course you could," Hamlet said. "You have to offset the cost of doing a show no one wants to attend."

The director's face fell.

"I'm sure tomorrow night's show will be excellent. Empty, but excellent. Let me give you a check when I give you the lines tonight."

"The actors can't just learn--"

"They're versatile professionals, sir. I'm sure you'll find my lines easy to add and my check easy to cash."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Nothing vulgar or profane," the director said. "My granddaughter will be in the crowd."

Hamlet grinned.

 

"Ophelia--"

There was a determination in her eyes like he had never seen before.

"Are you going to apologize for this morning?"

"This morning? This morning was  _years_ ago, Ophelia. You would hold a grudge against me that long?"

"You scared me, Hamlet." She slowly approached him. She held a box that hadn't been with her at dinner.

"I won't give you what you've come for," Hamlet said. He fell back onto his bed, arms and legs spread wide. "So you can go."

"I came to return these."

"These?"

"Things. Things you gave me."

He sat up, interested once again. She handed the box to him, and he carefully took the lid off. They were trinkets-- innocent gestures that became symbolic too quickly for a high school romance. He picked out a baseball from a minor league game they had gone to, rolling it around in his hand.

"Things. Buildings. Monuments. People. Memories. We're all the same in the end, Ophelia." He threw it, the fastest pitch he could muster, at a lamp in a corner of his room that hadn't been touched in years. It toppled, and dust flew, clearly visible in the low light. "Dust, my dear. We're just dust."

"They're right. You've gone insane."

"Who? My mother? My uncle? The people I call my friends? My family? And you, too, no doubt." He jumped to his feet and seized her. The box and its contents scattered and shattered on the floor. "None of you see the truth."

"What is the truth?" she asked, incredulous. "Do you know what you're doing, Hamlet? Do know who you're hurting?" His fingers dug into her arms a little deeper. "What is the point?"

His face froze, broken for the first time since this had started. He looked vulnerable. Like the little boy she grew up with. She reached up for his face, familar for the first time in months. 

He let her go.

"You're right; ashes to ashes, dust to dust." 

The end result was the same. If he died trying to take down his uncle, it wouldn't matter. At least justice would be served. At least his father could rest. And if it meant spending eternity in hell for murder, then he would do it. He would do it because it was what  _he_ deserved, not his father.

"Do you love me?" Ophelia asked. He walked to a window, staring out over the backyard. All was still. Would his father still come in the morning? He wasn't sure he could face him.

"No," Hamlet said. He heard her strangled sob but felt nothing. 

"So I'm not the reason for this?"

"Do you really believe you're that important to me? That you ever were?" He turned around. "If you knew what was good for you, you'd go far, far away from here and never come back. This place  _destroys_ people. Don't you see that? I tried to go, I really did, Ophelia, I tried."

He fell to his knees for the second time that week. He buried his face in his hands because no one could see him like this. 

_What would Father think?_

He felt her hand on his back. 

_How do you deserve this?_

Her lips graced a kiss on the side of his cheek.

_How do you deserve her?_

"I don't know how I feel, Ophelia," he confessed. "About you, about him, about any of this. I just want to do what's right."

_Why do you break whatever you touch?_

"Go," he mumbled, scrubbing the tears from his eyes. "Ophelia, go!" He whirled around and she stumbled back, tripping over the box and landing on her back. She fumbled to rise, but he did so faster. He stood over her, with that same darkness in his eyes. "Go and don't ever come back, Ophelia. Run."

She crawled her way to the safety of the hallway.

Whatever confidence she had entered with was gone now.


	8. Act III, Scene i

The boys had caught her after dinner, as she attempted to retire to her room early. Hamlet had given her a headache that not even Claudius' whiskey could numb. 

"All he said is that he's still greiving," Rosencratz (or was it Guildenstern?) reported.

"That's it?"

"That's it," he nodded. 

"He didn't say that he was angry with Claudius or I?"

"No, ma'am."

"And it's not Ophelia?"

"Ophelia?" the other asked. "They're still together?"

She wrung her hands, glancing back at the dinner party behind her. 

"Keep an eye on him. We may still need you two."

They both mumbled thank you's and disappeared. 

She climbed the stairs and found Claudius and Polonius surrounding Ophelia. Her heart ached for the girl, caught up in Hamlet's temper tantrum. She looked like a lamb up for the slaughter. She clutched a box to her chest, and her dark eyes darted back and forth between the two men, who were reviewing the plan with her again. When she saw Gertrude, she almost looked relieved. But Gertrude had no intention of saving Ophelia tonight.

"Make him listen to you," Gertrude said, in lieu of a goodbye.

...

A floor above them, Hamlet paced his room, biting a nail. On his desk sat a modified script and a check with four enticing digits.

"Why." He hadn't realized he had spoken the word aloud until it echoed on the walls. "Why," he repeated. "Why am I doing this?"

He picked up an old teddy bear from off a shelf that hadn't been dusted in years. He held the bear-- an old friend-- out in front of him.

"To be, or not to be," he said. "That is the question, isn't it?"

The beady eyes stared back at him. He gave his best smile. But like the day of his father's funeral, he really didn't have much left to give. 

"Death seems like the simpler choice. To not have to put up with the craziness and unpredictability of this world. To never have to look my uncle in the eyes again. To not have to contemplate the morality of it all. To not have to think about Ophelia or my mother ever again. To not have to feel. I think death's just a permanent sleep. And if the life after it is anything like what I dreamt about this morning-- oh, God, I want nothing more. But we don't know for sure. It could be an eternal nightmare-- I know I don't deserve anything but hell after what I've done these last few weeks. But the uncertainty of it-- the uncertainty is all that is stopping me right now."

He set the teddy bear down on the edge of his bed and crouched before it.

"Our conscious makes us cowardly, Teddy."

He heard gentle footsteps approaching, so he stood, spinning around as he did.

"Ophelia--"

There was a determination in her eyes like he had never seen before. It made her a terrifying beauty. It was the girl he always wanted Ophelia to become but had never let her be. 

"Are you going to apologize for this morning?"

"This morning? This morning was  _years_ ago, Ophelia. You would hold a grudge against me that long?" He held his arms out open, but she didn't move towards them.

So his false affection would not solve this one.

"You scared me, Hamlet." She slowly approached him. She held a box that he didn't recognize. 

"I won't give you what you've come for," Hamlet decided. He fell back onto his bed, arms and legs spread wide. "So you can go."

"I came to return these."

"These?"

"Things. Things you gave me."

He sat up, interested once again. She handed the box to him, and he carefully took the lid off. They were trinkets-- innocent gestures that became symbolic too quickly for a high school romance. He picked out a baseball from a minor league game they had gone to, rolling it around in his hand.

"Things. Buildings. Monuments. People. Memories. We're all the same in the end, Ophelia." He threw it, the fastest pitch he could muster, at a lamp in a corner of his room that hadn't been touched in years. It toppled, and dust flew, clearly visible in the low light. "Dust, my dear. We're just dust."

"They're right. You've gone insane."

"Who? My mother? My uncle? The people I call my friends? My family? And you, too, no doubt." He jumped to his feet and seized her. The box and its contents scattered and shattered on the floor beneath them. "None of you see the truth."

"What is the truth?" she asked, incredulous. "Do you know what you're doing, Hamlet? Do know who you're hurting?" His fingers dug into her arms a little deeper. "What is the point?"

His face froze, broken for the first time since this had started. He looked vulnerable. Like the little boy she grew up with. She reached up for his face, familar for the first time in months. 

He let her go.

"You're right; ashes to ashes, dust to dust." 

The end result was the same. If he died trying to take down his uncle, it wouldn't matter. At least justice would be served. At least his father could rest. And if it meant spending eternity in hell for murder, then he would do it. He would do it because it was what  _he_ deserved, not his father.

"Do you love me?" Ophelia asked. He walked to a window, staring out over the backyard. All was still. Would his father still come in the morning? He wasn't sure he could face him.

"No," Hamlet said. He heard her strangled sob but felt nothing. 

"So I'm not the reason for this?"

"Do you really believe you're that important to me? That you ever were?" He turned around. "If you knew what was good for you, you'd go far, far away from here and never come back. This place  _destroys_ people. Don't you see that? I tried to go, I really did, Ophelia, I tried."

He fell to his knees for the second time that week. He buried his face in his hands because no one could see him like this. 

_What would Father think?_

He felt her hand on his back. 

_How do you deserve this?_

Her lips graced a kiss on the side of his cheek.

_How do you deserve her?_

"I don't know how I feel, Ophelia," he confessed. "About you, about him, about any of this. I just want to do what's right."

_Why do you break whatever you touch?_

"Go," he mumbled, scrubbing the tears from his eyes. "Ophelia, go!" He whirled around and she stumbled back, tripping over the box and landing on her back. She fumbled to rise, but he did so faster. He stood over her, with that same darkness in his eyes. "Go and don't ever come back, Ophelia. Run."

She crawled her way to the safety of the hallway.

Whatever confidence she had entered with was gone now.

...

She stumbled into her father's arms. He covered her mouth to silence her sobs and guided her down the stairs. 

She wanted so badly to be strong. She wanted to forget his words. She wanted someone to tell her that Hamlet's words were lies. That he was just lost, not honest. 

"What did you do?" Gertrude's voice hissed. Ophelia looked up. She was in the master bedroom. Gertrude was seated before a glowing vanity, wrapped in a robe. "Shut the door--" She rose and took Ophelia's crumpled figure from her father. "I hope this was worth it."

"I don't think Ophelia is the problem," Claudius said. Gertrude rubbed her back and whispered a demand for her silence. Ophelia attempted to stiffle her sobs. "He said--"

"I don't think Hamlet's words need repeating," Polonius interjected. "That boy needs more help than we can give him."

"What are you suggesting?" Claudius asked.

"I know a man, an old friend from seminary, a really fantastic man-- we once got into some minor trouble on one of our evenings off--"

"Reverend."

"Its a Biblical-based inpatient therapy program. About three hours from here, but it wouldn't be a problem to get Hamlet a spot."

"We're not sending him to an insane asylum," Gertrude said. 

"But he is insane," Ophelia said, looking at them with red eyes. "That's not Hamlet anymore. He's been possessed. I loved Hamlet, but he's beyond saving now."

"No one is beyond saving," Polonius said with a warm smile. His comment went ignored and Claudius continued.

"We're sending him away," Claudius said with firmness. "He can go back to New York. Hell-- pardon me, reverend-- he can go to Beruit and I'll make sure his ticket is first class. Wherever he wants, I'll send him."

"I think we should try one more think though," Polonius said. "The only person I think he'll listen to at this point is you, Gertrude. We tried Ophelia, and well-- I just think you might be able to reason with him. After tomorrow night's show, I'll hide in here and listen. I think you could talk some sense into him. If not, you can tell him of Claudius' plan."

"Ophelia, dear, would you like to sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight?" Gertrude offered.

"I don't want to be anywhere near him," Ophelia said. Polonius' smile grew slightly at the comment.

"Of course, I understand," Gertrude said. "Then I trust you can show yourselves out."

Polonius escorted Ophelia out and Claudius shut the door behind them.

"Its us, you know," Gertrude said. 

"I think he just hates me," Claudius sighed. "And I've tried, Gertrude. You know I have." She nodded, making her way back to the vanity. He followed, standing behind her as she ran a comb through tangled blonde curls, still stiff from that day's hairspray. He could see Hamlet in her face; the boy really hadn't inherited much from his father except dark complexion. The curly hair was hers, the high cheekbones, the constant smirk, the air of regality. 

"I don't understand why he has such hatred for you."

Her comment hung in the air.

Hamlet was onto him, of that he was sure. 


	9. Act III, Scene ii

"Understand?"

The assembled actors nodded. 

"Don't be too overdramatic," Hamlet instructed. "If I wanted you to do that, I would have hired good Reverend Polonius to do this." There was a light, uneasy laughter. It seemed sinful to laugh at a holy man. "Not too many hand gestures; be natural-- but elegant. A good actor performs without being theatrical. Yes?"

Another nod.

"But don't be too timid. I want the people in the backrow to understand what is going on, even if they can't hear you. You need to please those brave souls who decide to show up tonight. And remember where you--" He pointed at the man playing the fictional assasin, "--need to look as your pour the poison. Trust me; he'll laugh. Its a little joke of ours."

"Hamlet!"

He turned around in a dramatic fashion and threw up his hands. "Tia!" He turned back to the players. "One of our brave souls."

"I hope you aren't telling them how to do their job, considering you almost failed Theater in high school."

"I almost failed it in college too." He took a running jump of the stage, landing right in front of her. "I have a plan," he whispered.

"Do tell," she smiled. 

"I've modified tonight's performance to take into account the present of one particular guest."

"Claudius?"

Hamlet nodded, putting his hands on Tia's shoulders. "I need you to watch him. Sit next to him, and when the assassin is revealed to be the king's nephew, see how he reacts."

"Why?"

"The ghost."

"This is what he told you?"

"Claudius murdered my father. But before I do anything, I need to make sure he's guilty. If he reacts like I think he will, it'll prove his guilt."

"And then what? You report him to the police?"

"Its too late for the police, Tia."

It took her a moment to process.

"You wouldn't." When he didn't protest, she jumped back from him. "Hamlet--"

"My father can't rest until he's been avenged. You were there. You saw him. You know I'm not hallucinating."

" _Dios mio_." She put a hand over her heart. "You don't meddle in the affairs of the dead."

"The dead came to me, Tia."

"You're making me an accomplice."

"I never said anything incriminating to you, Tia. You're still innocent, my dearest friend. I'll be watching too." He grabbed her hand, which was tied up with a makeshift bandage. "Remember your promise, Tia." He kissed the back of her hand.

The doors to the theater opened as the stage lights fell dark. He let her hand drop and jumped to attention, saluting her, and fleeing the theater before she could say anything more.

Fifteen minutes later, a small audience had assembled. In the front row was the Hamlet family minus one plus Tia and Polonius. Family members of the actors took scattered seats throughout, and an even smaller number of people from town had decided to give up their Friday nights for a night at the theater. When the lights fell, the director appeared under a spotlight to introduce the show. 

This is when Ophelia snuck in, taking a seat in the third row, mistaking Tia in the front row for Hamlet. She believed herself to be safe, until he swooped into the seat next to her from his hiding place in the back corner of the theater.

"Ophelia," he greeted. He propped his feet up on the chair in front of them.

The man sitting in it turned around, prepared to make a threat until he saw Hamlet. He calmly turned around, suddenly complacent with the feet resting over his shoulder.

Claudius may have been the king of the town, but that made Hamlet the prince.

"Please go," she said. He threw an arm around her shoulders. 

"Just like old times."

"I wish," she said, with a true desire for a time long gone.

The director finished with a flourishing bow to the audience's applause. The curtain rose to a cheap rendition of a rose garden that looked vaguely like Gertrude's. 

His check hadn't gone to the scenary apparently.

Claudius turned around briefly. Hamlet gave an eager wave to his uncle, whose face soured at the sight of his nephew acting out of character. 

The king and queen began a long exchange of vows and declaration of love.

"You're in a good mood tonight," Ophelia noted.

"As opposed to?"

"As opposed to your recent meltdown."

"An unhappy life isn't worth living," he said, struggling to feign enthusiasm.

"All lives are valuable," Ophelia whispered.

"I know that's what your father taught you, but he and I have recently agreed that we read different books."

"What?"

"Never mind."

The king lunged forward and swept the queen up in a messy kiss.

This was going to be a disaster.

"I mean, just look at my mother," Hamlet continued. "She's radiant and my father died just a few hours ago."

"Hamlet, it's been months."

"Funny, it's felt like an eternity. But, hey, if she's moved on like this in only four months, then there's hope that she'll have forgotten him by November. I mean, that's all greiving really is-- hoping to forget."

"Oh, confound the rest!" the queen onstage shouted, throwing herself back into the king. "Such love must needs be treason in my breast. In second husband let me be accursed! None wed the second but who killed the first."

"Now there's an idea," Hamlet said, loud enough for the entire theater to hear. Gertrude visibly flinched in the front row. The actors faultered momentarily but continued with their lines. 

"Do you hate me for what I said last night?" Hamlet whispered to Ophelia. 

"You hurt me," Ophelia said, slowly, preparing her next statement. "But I don't think I could ever hate you."

"So you still have love for me?"

"I love you, yes. But I am not in love with you."

"I don't understand the difference."

She looked at him. In the darkness of the theater he couldn't make out her facial expression, so he brushed a hand across her cheek. 

_It's not enough._

He leaned in and kissed her, as softly as he could. Enough for her pull away if she wanted to. But she didn't. She simply didn't move.

"I couldn't die knowing you hated me, Ophelia," he said, putting his forehead against hers.

"Sleep tight," the queen said, leaving her husband on a stone bench to die, "and may nothing come between us." She fled the stage with her hand to her heart.

"What do you think, my queen?" Hamlet called into the pause that he had written into the script. 

Gertrude turned around slowly. "Little too dramatic for my taste."

"Ouch," Hamlet winced. "But loyalty is such an important quality in any relationship. I have faith in our fictional queen. She seems a lady of her word." Claudius turned around.

"What are you doing, Hamlet?"

"Me? Watching the show, of course. Same as everyone else."

"But you know this play?"

"Yep. Read it in school. The guy is Gonzago and his wife is Baptista. He is about to be killed, and-- well, you'll see. It's a horrible little show, but everything has a purpose right? Oh--" A younger actor hesitantly stepped onto the stage, waiting patiently for Hamlet's silence. "This is Lucianus, Gonzago's nephew."

"Suddenly a literary expert?" Ophelia snapped.

"Well, I was an English major for like, a week and a half."

"You're awfully sharp today."

"Well, you could certainly take some of that edge off--"

"If only you could be as good at silence as you are with your commentary."

"Can we get on with the show please?" Hamlet called. "I came to see a murder!"

Lucianus proceeded with the scene, slipping the poison into the king through his ear, without him ever waking. As Lucianus fled the scene, Hamlet resumed his commentary.

"And so the king is dead, and Lucianus only has one more obstacle left before him: he must win the heart of the widowed queen, which of course, he does with a suspicious amount of ease."

Claudius rose, his seat snapping back with a crack.

"Are you okay?" Gertrude asked.

"Stop the play," Claudius ordered.

"It's just a show," Hamlet laughed.

"What games are you playing, boy?" Claudius demanded, storming up the aisle to Hamlet. He rose to meet his uncle, with fury and excitement in his eyes. Claudius clawed at his tie, loosening it until it hung like a noose before an execution around his neck. Sweat poured down his face and panic clouded his eyes. Hamlet watched his uncle crumpled with perfect poise. 

"Lights!" someone called.

Gertrude was at his side almost instantly, ushering Claudius up the aisle. The entire theater watched him go. When the doors shut behind them, Hamlet was the next center of attention. He kept his back to the audience and watched the place where his uncle had once been. 

He didn't watch the theater slowly empty.

"Hamlet." There was fear in Tia's voice-- the same trepidation as when the ghost had appeared. She placed her hand lightly on his arm. "Hamlet, he's--"

"--guilty," Hamlet finished. He looked Tia in the eyes. "I got him."

"You can't--"

Rosencratz approached them; Guildenstern stood at the beginning of the aisle.

"Hamlet, your mother wants to see you in her room when you get back to the house," Rosencratz said.

"Good to see you've settled into your role as faithful lapdog to my mother; she always wanted a little Shitzu."

"They're just concerned--"

"Well, it's your fake concern that frankly has me pissed off," Hamlet snapped. Rosencratz scurried up the aisle. 

"Are you going to go?"

"Of course," Hamlet said. "My queen beckons."


	10. Act III, Scene iii

Elsinore was a flurry of activity following the brief production. 

In the office, Claudius stood with Rosencratz and Guildenstern.

In the master bedroom, Gertrude sat at her vanity, with Polonius hidden behind a curtain.

In the garage, Hamlet held a pistol to the ceiling and fired.

...

"I'm going to have him pack his bags. You'll leave the day after tomorrow."

"But why do we have to go, sir?" Rosencratz asked.

"I don't trust him to actually go. You'll follow him at a distance; that's all," Claudius said. He was slouching in an armchair, a glass of whiskey in hand. This was the only solution he could think of. It wasn't perfect, but he needed Hamlet out of Elisnore if he was going to get away with this. "When you get to New York, let me know and simply turn around. This is the last of my favors."

"But the farms--"

"They'll be seen to," Claudius said. "You'll go?"

They nodded and he waved them away with the glass of whiskey.

Hanging across the office was an old family portrait. Claudius and Charles Hamlet Sr. stood hand-in-hand in front of their parents. Charles was looking to Claudius and Claudius was looking to the sky. 

Claudius fell from his chair, falling to his knees. He let the tumbler fall to the ground, creating islands of glass in a sea of whiskey.

"Oh, God, forgive me," Claudius cried. He didn't care if anyone heard him at this point. "Oh, what have I done? I gained the world but lost my brother. . ."

...

His father had used the unattached garage as a storage space for all of the things Gertrude wouldn't let in the house. One of those things was a silver .22, embossed with the family name. It was a collector's item more than it was a weapon, but it still had the firing power. The shot echoed in the garage, but barely managed to ring outside of it. 

There were five rounds left, but Hamlet would only need two. 

He slipped the gun in the pocket of his coat and made his way towards Elisnore.

The house was seemingly still when he entered it, but after a moment he heard his uncle's cries. He made his way towards the office, the door barely open. He slipped inside and found his uncle with his back to the doors.

So he had brought Claudius to his knees. 

Claudius mumbled prayers that sounded more like begging. 

Hamlet pulled the gun out of his pocket and held it up. Execution style is what they called it in the movies. The end of the barrel was just a foot away from his uncle's head. 

Claudius was oblivious, caught up in the burden of his guilt and the desire to confess. His prayers revealed that he wanted to be forgiven but didn't want to lose what he had gained.

Hamlet put his finger on the trigger. One action would take his uncle's life. 

_If only actions were as easy as thoughts._

To kill his uncle now would be wrong. There was something imperfect about the moment. Claudius was seeking forgiveness-- Hamlet couldn't kill him like this. And he would go without looking Hamlet in the eyes. Without attempting to apologize. Without understanding his crimes. Without understanding the pain he had caused Hamlet. 

It was wrong. 

He pocketed the gun and left the office.

_No one will die tonight._

...

She called for Hamlet to enter, and he did so, quietly, and entirely out of character.

"Tired from your little stunt?" she asked.

"You're angry with me," Hamlet observed. 

"You angered your father."

"He's not my father." Hamlet leaned against the wall where Polonius was wrapped up in a curtain. "But you have certainly angered mine."

"Come again?"

"My father. Your former husband."

"Oh, so we're talking about this now." Gertrude turned around, her lips pressed together in challenge.

"Two months. You couldn't have waited?"

"For what? The rumors to die down? For your father to decompose a little more-- Oh, goody, his eyes have been eaten by maggots; now we can finally seal the deal."

"Did you ever love him?"

"Of course. When I married him, it was the best day of my life," Gertrude said. "But people change. Your father didn't, and that was the problem. He was the same man from the day we met to the day he died. He was routine; he was boring. I was trapped. Barely past thirty with an eight year old son and an old man on my arm."

"So you cheated?"

"That was my solution at the time. I'm not proud, Hamlet, but at least I was happy."

She felt no sin, no shame. 

But he felt everything. He felt hurt, betrayed, empty, deserted. He felt what she should have. 

Hamlet pushed himself off the wall and made his way to his mother. He knelt before her, grabbing her arms like he had grabbed Ophelia the night before. Terror struck her eyes; she finally realized how strong her son was. She'd never seen Hamlet. His whole life, she had seen the angelic son every mother dreamed of. She hadn't seen the anger and the rage he harbored inside him. Until now. 

"You betrayed my father. You betrayed this family. Don't tell me you love Claudius; he's a shell of the man my father was. You became a Hamlet for the money, and you kept Claudius around just in case, right? That makes you no better than a whore--"

"Claudius--" She gasped his name, like she couldn't breathe. He followed her eyes to the gun in his pocket, shining in the light of the candles she had lit. 

"It's incestuous, but you can't see past the bank account balance. I hate you for that. I hate you for lying to him. For making him die alone. For putting yourself first. For forgetting about me." He squeezed a little tighter.

"Claudius!" she screamed, this time crying for help.

"He can't hear you over the sound of his prayers," he assured her. 

She screamed again, and this time there came a tumbling noise from near the door.

"And here comes the murderer himself." Hamlet threw Gertrude back, and pulled the gun from his pocket. He spun and fire a shot into the man emerging from the shadows. 

"No!" she screamed.

"Stop that," he said, pointing the gun back at her.

"Hamlet, what have you done?"

"Don't worry, mother; my sins don't outweigh yours."

"That's not him," she sobbed, shaking her head. 

"What do you m--" He looked back. "Oh, good reverend." He fell to his knees, and crawled to the body of Polonius. "Oh, oh, no, no, no, no."

This made him no better than Claudius. How could he pass sentence on a crime he himself had just committed?

But Polonius was a fool, a pawn in his uncle's game. He was an accomplice, likely just as guilty as his uncle in the death of his father. 

With that realization, he rose, pocketing the gun.

His mother had stopped sobbing, but she stared with him with relentless hatred.

"You still puzzle me."

"You've killed a man and you want to talk about my affair? Hamlet, you really are mad!"

He took a photo frame off their dresser and examined it. It was their wedding photo and they looked genuinely happy. Hamlet had been standing behind the photographer with a bitter frown on his face, but it hadn't changed their exuberance. 

He tossed the photo into his mother's lap and pulled up another photo on his phone. Gertrude's other wedding day-- the happiest day of her life-- her arm around the elder Hamlet. He flashed the photo in her face.

"How could you stoop so low? To go from one brother to another-- to the uglier, bitter one?"

"Hamlet, stop; please, I beg of you."

"You don't see the difference? I do."

"Of course there's a difference--"

"But it's not a good one. You say I'm the crazy one," he laughed. "But at least I have the sense to see how stupid your affair was."

"I see it, Hamlet. You don't think I do?" She shoved the frame into his chest. "I know. I see, I see, I swear I do." She rose, raking her fingers through her hair.

"But you stay. Every night you lay in that bed-- my father's bed-- and tell his brother that you love him."

"Stop it!" she shouted.

"Claudius stole everything from us!" Hamlet screamed back. "And you refuse to see it! You're blind! He killed my father and took his throne! He's not even half the man my father is, but he managed to take it all from him."

They both froze in that moment, but for different reasons.

Gertrude stopped her sobbing at Hamlet's accusation of murder.

Hamlet stopped his tirade because his father had appeared behind his mother.

He wore the same cheap suit, but he seemed more fragile-- on the edge of some precipice he could never return from.

"What did you say?" Gertrude asked.

"Father," Hamlet breathed.

"Hamlet, what did you say?" she demanded, rushing towards him. She fell into him, grabbing at his shirt. As much as she demanded his attention, it was locked on the ghost. "What are you looking at?" She looked back into the empty space of her room, seeing nothing. "Hamlet." She shook him, but nothing could pull him away.

"I promise I'm close-- I was close," Hamlet insisted.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Don't forget about me," the ghost said. "I need you to avenge me. Your compassion is failing you, Hamlet. He is guilty, but you cannot see past your morals."

"I know but--"

"Comfort her," the ghost said, beckoning to his mother. "She has lost everything you have, Hamlet. She has gained nothing in this."

"She has Claudius-- I have no one."

"Only a blind man believes he has no one at his side."

The lights in the room flickered, and in a moment of darkness, the spirit disappeared.

Hamlet snapped from his rapture, and embraced his mother. 

"How are you?"

She pushed him away. "Me? Suddenly you care about me? You're talking to no one, Hamlet!"

"No, I spoke to my father." He frowned. "I'm not really crazy."

"Oh?" She laughed. "Thank heavens, then! Hamlet has come to his wits!"

"I was pretending."

"Pretending? Pretending?" He reached for her hand but she smacked him across the face instead. 

"I deserved that," he winced, stretching his jaw out. "Do you trust me?"

"I-- Why would you do all of that?"

"I had to distract Claudius while I came up with a plan." 

Gertrude was silent, waiting for him to continue. 

"He killed Dad," Hamlet said. "I know he did. And the way he reacted tonight-- it proved it. You can't tell him that I was only pretending to be crazy though."

"And what's your plan now?"

"I-- I don't know." He couldn't tell Gertrude he planned to kill her newly betrothed. 

"He's going to send you away," Gertrude confessed.

"Let him," Hamlet said. Maybe he could run away from his guilt and his grief. The ghost of his father lived at Elisnore; in New York, he'd be safe. His mother and uncle could live happily ever after, and his father-- well, maybe he really was crazy. "But you can't tell him what I've just told you."

"I don't believe he could kill his brother," Gertrude said. "Claudius is-- greedy, but he wouldn't go that far."

He didn't have it in him to continue to destroy his mother's hope. She still saw good in his uncle, and if he was going to leave Elisnore, that was for the best.

"What are you going to do with--" Her eyes drifted to Polonius, "--him?"

"Don't worry about the good reverend," Hamlet said. "I'll take care of it." He walked over to the body, which had conviently fallen onto an old rug.

"And what do we say?"

"You say nothing." Hamlet rolled the rug up around Polonius. "We met tonight, like you told Rosencratz we would, and now we're going to bed.  _I'm_ going to bed, mother."

He hefted Polonius up into his arms, and smiled, a smile that did nothing to convince his mother of his sanity. 

"Goodnight, mother."


	11. Act IV, Scene i

Claudius was surprised to find Gertrude lost in prayer when he finally made his way to their room.

She had sunken to her knees, on a now bare space in the middle of the room, muttering her way through what sounded like a confession. Her hair was a frazzled mess and her silk robe had fallen from one shoulder and torn on the other. 

"Gertrude--" Her head shot up. "Gertrude, where is the rug?"

"He's gone mad," she said, crawling towards him. "He says he's not-- but it's in his eyes. He's lost, Claudius."

He knelt before her, holding her.

It brought him back to the night of Hamlet Sr.'s death. She'd been in such a shock, swinging between relief and grief. He hated seeing her conflicted, especially because of his actions, but everytime she had looked up at him that first night, with a smile gracing her lips, it felt worth it. 

It hadn't felt worth it in a long time.

"He said he was pretending to be crazy, but he killed Polonius, he said you had killed Charles, and that he could see his father--"

"What?"

"He killed Polonius. Right here."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

"He thought Polonius was you-- oh, God, he would have killed you." She grabbed the front of his suit. "He would have killed you, Polonius."

"And he said I killed Charles?"

_So he knew._

"Yes, yes, and he said he was seeing the ghost of his father."

"That's madness," Claudius insisted, weakly. 

"He wants to go away though. We just need to let him go."

Hamlet couldn't just leave though.

Even in New York, the boy would be a threat.

Claudius was building an empire.

And there was no place for Hamlet.

...

Hamlet left Elsinore quietly that morning. Claudius didn't have the heart to wake Gertrude and subject her to goodbyes.

Breakfast was a quiet affair for once. They should have felt relieved; Hamlet leaving was the closest thing they could have gotten to a mutually beneficial agreement. But no one was happy. A tension hung in the air, as they waited for Rosencratz's report on Hamlet's arrival in New York. Rosencratz and Guildenstern were driving one of the company cars packed full with Hamlet's things, and behind them, Hamlet drove his ancient pickup.

As dishes were carted away, the door to the dining room flew open, revealing Ophelia. 

"I'm sorry," she hesitated. "I should have knocked."

"Have you had breakfast yet?" Claudius asked. "I'm sure we can make you--"

"I'm looking for my father. He never came home last night. I didn't want to trouble you."

The Hamlets exchanged glances that appeared to be innocent. 

"He left here around eleven," Gertrude said, with a smile. "I'm sure he's fine."

"Where would he be though? Did he mention anything?"

"No, no," Claudius said. "But he was drinking--"

"He wouldn't," Ophelia interjected. "He just hit ten years sober a month ago. He wouldn't."

"Oh," Gertrude said, ruffling the napkin in her lap. "We were unaware he had an. . . issue."

"He kept it private. Is Hamlet here?"

"And why do you need him?" Claudius asked.

"He left," Gertrude said, before she could answer. "Didn't he tell you?"

Ophelia hesitated for a moment too long for her response to be truthful, "Of course. I just didn't realize he meant  _this_ morning."

"Maybe you should call you brother," Gertrude suggested. 

"I think I should call the cops."

"The cops?" Claudius asked. "I don't think we need to do that just yet--"

"If not now, when? Tomorrow is Sunday and if he's not at church. . ." Ophelia fell into one of the chairs with a sigh. "I drove around town all night last night."

"Then you need sleep," Gertrude said. "We'll go looking, won't we, Claudius? And if he's not home by dinner, then we'll call the sheriff." 

"Thank you," Ophelia said, blinking. Her lack of sleep was apparent to them now; her typically shining face was dulled and she wore the same dress that she had at the theater.

"Use one of the guest bedrooms," Gertrude insisted. "I don't want you in that house alone."

"You're too kind," Ophelia said, half-heartedly. She rose and carried herself up the stairs. Without Hamlet, the house seemed emptier, devoid of personality. It was just another Southern mansion with no character and sterile white walls that held the secrets of generations. She passed by the spare bedrooms and continued up another flight of stairs to the attic space that Hamlet called home. It had been cleared of some of it's things, giving a passing illusion of cleanliness. 

The bed had been made, though likely not by Hamlet. She pulled the covers aside and crawled into the bed. It smelled like the original Hamlet, the one who actually cared about his appearance. It was a cliche smell; some Polo brand of cologne mixed with old smell of Elisnore. 

Four months ago, she had sat beside him, on the edge of the bed. There had been a heartwrenching gap between them. She wanted to be closer, and he couldn't be far enough away from her. She knew where his mind was; the funeral had ended hours ago and his thoughts were still, rightfully, on his father. She knew what grief looked like, and Hamlet was the poster child for it. He 

They had snuck away from the "light refreshments and appetisers" downstairs, at Hamlet's beckon.

"I should go," she finally said, standing. He had pulled her back down, asking her to stay with pitiful eyes. She accepted by sitting, this time just slightly closer. "Do you want to talk?"

"I don't know what to say."

"You can cry in front of me, Hamlet."

"I can't cry anymore."

"Where did you go during the funeral?"

"The creek," he said. "I went fishing."

She had laughed, lightly.

"That's where he would have wanted you," she said, taking his hand and putting it in her lap.

"Ophelia, no. I'm--"

She put her chin on his shoulder, and whispered, "Believe it or not, not everything is sexual. Sometimes, people hold hands just to show support for one another." A tiny smile flickered on his face.

"I love you," he had said, for the last time.

Now, she realized, that moment was the beginning of the end. 


	12. Act IV, Scene ii

The drive to New York left him alone with his thoughts, a prospect more terrifying to him than driving behind Rosencratz for the next day and a half.

A Jimmy Buffet tape played on a loop, simply because he was too lazy to seek out a new radio station every hour or so when one faded to static. If his isolation didn't drive him to madness, "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" surely would. 

About the fourth hour of driving, his phone rang, and a photo of Claudius wearing a Photoshopped crown appeared. He answered the call, with an overly cheery "hello". 

"Where is the body?"

"Good morning to you too, dear uncle."

"I'm not in the mood for games, Hamlet. Where is Polonius?"

"Who is asking?"

"The entire damn town, including your beloved Ophelia."

"Ophelia?"

"Yes."

"Tell her she'll find your father where I found mine."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"She'll understand."

"I'm the one who asked, boy."

"Then your clue is: The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body."

"I want a direct answer."

"I'm sure the location will float to the top of your mind eventually."

The line was silent, but not dead.

"Or better yet, find him where he is now. Send a man to Heaven to look for him there; might I suggest Guildenstern? He's got the best shot between the two of them, and clearly, you trust him to do your dirty work. As for Hell, well, I think you can handle that job yourself. I can promise you won't have any uncomfortable run-ins with my father."

"I gave you a chance, Hamlet."

"That was your first mistake."

Hamlet hung up, tossing the phone into the passenger seat. He twisted the volume as high it would go, despite the pounding in his ears. 

The highway was clear as far as he could see. No traffic, just an endless stretch of road, blurring into the horizon.

"Pour me somethin' tall an' strong," he sang, his voice lost beneath Jimmy's. 

"Make it a 'Hurricane' before I go insane,

It's only half-past--" He looked at the clock, "--ten but I don't care,

It's five o'clock somewhere."

A dark semi-truck pulled up alongside him, from seemingly nowhere. The driver made eye contact with him as he passed on the left, and Hamlet gave him a grin and a specific finger. With Rosencratz still in front of him, a second semi-truck pulled up behind him. He was boxed in now, with a thick forest on his right. 

The truck behind him began to press in. Rosencratz seemed oblivious, so Hamlet pressed on his horn. 

Nothing. 

The gap between him and the surrounding cars got smaller and smaller. He was going to hit someone, and at the speeds they were going at, no one would survive.

Panic flooded him.

For the first time in a long time, he felt alive. He had done a lot in college to get this sort of adrenaline, but this was real.

It was life or death, and for once he wanted life. He wanted to see his mother again. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to forgive. He wanted to forget. He wanted to feel love. He wanted to be in love. He wanted to live.

He knew what these trucks wanted. He knew who sent them. 

He had a second to decide.

He swerved, slamming on the brakes as soon as he was clear of the road. 

It wouldn't be enough to stop him from slamming into the treeline. 

He watched the windshield, watched as certain death approached at 60 mph. 

He gasped, bracing himself for the impact.

"Ophelia--"


	13. Act IV, Scene iii

She sat on the bank of the river, keeping her gaze down. Like this, she couldn't see the chaos of the surrounding area; the flashing police lights, the coroner's somber ambulance, the curious mob that had come to see the body of the reverend. Whoever had been tasked with questioning her about her father's death had given up long ago, and Gertrude's maternal concern had evaporated at the prospect of the ensuing scandal. The Hamlets had left her here as soon as the cops let them go. 

The river flowed by; it did not stop because of the crimes committed in its waters. She wanted to stop. She wanted to stop so badly. 

She closed her eyes, humming an old hymn. Her feet splashed in the water.

Hamlet had found his father in these waters, but she had lost hers. When Claudius questioned her about Hamlet's strange clue, she didn't answer him. She ran, as fast as she could the creek, beginning her search where it ran through Elsinore's property. By the time she had found her father's body, she had a string of police officers following after her. 

His face kept flashing in her mind, bruised and bloated, with a hole in the dead center of his forehead. 

It was quick at least. Faster than a heart attack, cleaner than any cancer.

She didn't realize she was singing her hymn out loud until the crowd fell silent and she could hear herself. She continue, nevertheless. She had spent her entire life in fear of their judgement, and it had only gotten her further entrenched in their archaic values and relentless gossip.

Today, she sang for herself.

...

Cop cars welcomed Laertes home.

The sheriff met him at the front door and questioned him for a half-hour before letting him go inside. 

Without his father there, the house was silent. The sheriff said that Ophelia was being brought home by a deputy, but she was putting up a fight. It didn't sound like her, but he knew grief did weird things to people.

His mother had died in childbirth, but Polonius never really recovered. The couple had been planning for seven kids-- "perfection" in the Bible-- but when left with two, he was overwhelmed. He coped by drinking. He drank Monday to Friday, recovered Saturday, and preached on Sunday. It was the same routine for eight years until a three day bender got Child Services and the Hamlets involved. 

Watching Polonius recover was extraordinary. There was a father under the alcoholic, and at nine years old, Laertes finally met him.

He didn't see his father as immortal, like most sons do. He saw his father's imperfections and ailing health, but never did he think that a bullet would be the thing to take him. 

He was still stuck in the entryway when the door opened, slamming into the adjacent wall. Ophelia came through, caked in mud to her knees, almost smiling. It was relief and delirium.

Ophelia crashed into him, clinging to him with everything her tiny body had. He embraced her back, but stared past her. Two cops and Claudius were making their way up the front steps. 

"Thank you for bringing her home safe," Laertes said. "But we need some time."

Claudius stopped the cops and waved them away. They took his command like he had somehow been elected police chief in Laertes' short absence.

"We need to talk," Claudius said. This was an order. "Why don't you get her cleaned up and then we can talk."

Laertes did as he was told, and an hour later he was seated before Claudius, bracing himself for whatever the older man knew that he didn't.

"Who did it?" Laertes asked.

"I understand you're angry," Claudius started.

"Spare me your speech," Laertes said. "My father is dead."

"I know who did it."

"Just tell me."

"Hamlet--"

Laertes jumped to his feet.

"--but he's gone," Claudius said. "I sent him away-- before I knew, of course."

"Does Ophelia know?"

"No," Claudius said. "Only Gertrude and I."

"She can't know," Laertes said. "If she knew, she'd go insane."

"I know you want revenge," Claudius said, "but you need to be careful. You've lost enough, and I'd hate to see you lose more."

"What do you mean?" Laertes asked.

"Well, your father might say 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,'" Claudius said. "A life for a life."

"You're saying I should kill Hamlet? My best friend?"

"His carelessness killed your father. He's deranged. Who knows who'll be next?"

"But he's in New York."

"That won't stop him," Claudius said. "There's no telling who he'll come after. Probably Ophelia--"

"I told her to stay away from him."

"Your words fell on deaf ears. Love makes fools of us all."

"So how will I do it?"

...

**Hamlet: Tia?**

**Tia: How's NYC?**

**Hamlet: I'm somewhere in northern VA. Claudius tried to kill me**

**Tia: ???**

**Hamlet: Two trucks tried to run me off the road. Saw the company logo on the side of 1 of them**

**Tia: Are u ok?**

**Hamlet: Fine, some bruises, cut open my forehead. Car hit a tree. Ran to a gas station and called uber to take me back to Elsinore. uber took me to the hospital. they said ill be here a few days since no1 can pick me up**

**Tia: Polonius was shot... Hes dead**

**Hamlet: ...**

**Tia: Hamlet.**

**Hamlet: dont want to talk about this over text. ill be home... eventually.**

**Tia: what hospital**

**Hamlet: nurses succk gotta go before my sponge bath ;)**


	14. Act IV, Scene iv

The brave Uber driver who was willing to drive him six hours through the night dropped him off at the town cemetary. Hamlet tipped the twenty-something generously and wandered into the maze of gravestones. It was unseasonably cold, and he had only a cheap black coat from the hospital gift shop. He pondered the morality of hospital gift shops as he treked up the hillside to the Hamlet family plot.

It wasn't a question of  _if_ this would be buried here, but  _when_. As a morning mist began to form, death felt closer than usual. 

Who would stand at his graveside and weep? 

Most of the remains of his relatives were buried into the earth, but his father had received a tomb, only at the insistance of his mother. 

He stood at the door to the tomb, reading the single line of inscription.

_Charles Hamlet_

He knew better, but all he could see was his own name. 

_Charles Hamlet_

He stumbled away from the tomb, running backwards into Tia.

She caught him as he fell and pulled him to his feet. 

"Tia," he breathed, hugging her as tightly as he could. It felt like the last time he would ever do this. Something in his mind begged him to never let go. To savor the moment and make it last an eternity.

"You're okay," Tia said, but he wasn't sure if it was relief or a promise in her voice. "You have a lot to explain."

"Anywhere but here," he said, taking her hand and pulling her away from anything that said "Hamlet".

They walked around the graveyard, watching the sunrise. 

Tia let him walk in silence for awhile before nudging him to start.

"Polonius was an accident. I thought it was Claudius. I dumped his body in the river and burned the evidence."

"The gun?"

"It's under a loose floorboard in my room. No one is going to find it."

"So you got away with it?"

"I think so," Hamlet said. "But Gertrude saw me do it. She swore she wouldn't tell Claudius, but I don't think I can trust her." 

He stopped, suddenly realizing his mistake.

"I shouldn't be here," Hamlet said. "He could tell the police--"

"And you can tell the police about what he did to your father. You're too much of a liability for him to do that."

"So he kills me then. He already tried once."

"Don't go," she said, grabbing onto his arm. "Finish explaining this to me. Then we can figure something out."

"He sent me away. Rosencratz and Guildenstern were in front of me, probably oblivious as usual. The trucks boxed me in and the one behind me kept on me until I had to swerve. I jumped out of the car as soon as I could. But I ran into the woods and made it to a rest stop. I heard the engine blow up. I made it to a truck stop. And you know the rest."

"So they don't know if you're dead or not," Tia said. "That's good. It means they don't know if you're dead or not."

Someone was approaching them on one of the paths, pulling a wagon full of tools along. 

"Put your hood up," Tia ordered.

"Good morning," the person called.

"Morning," Hamlet said back. 

"Mind if I get in there?" the man said, pointing at the tomb they were standing in front of.

"Of course," Hamlet said. "You work here?"

"Twenty five years come February," he said. At his waist was a ring of keys that he flipped through for a long moment before selecting one that brought a slight smile to his face.

"Do you usually have such early mornings?"

"Early mornings aren't a problem for the dead," he smiled, unlocking the tomb.

"Hamlet," Tia said, urging for him to move along.

"What are you doing in there?" Hamlet asked, moving away from Tia to watch him work.

"The family complained of a smell, so I'm here to clean the place up and shuffle some things around."

"I would check the bodies; I've heard they tend to rot easily."

The man began to whistle a little tune as he set to opening the individual resting places of each family member. 

At the stench of the first one, Tia turned away and disappeared from view, but Hamlet entered the mausoleum, watching him work closer.

"They all look the same," Hamlet marveled after the first few had been inspected and sniffed carefully. 

"Mm, maybe at first. But you gotta look for the little differences." He reached into one and pulled out a hip bone, riddled with cracks. "The ladies have wider hip bones, ya see? And the cracks in this one-- she either had a hard life or bone problems. Maybe both." He tossed it back in and sealed one and opened another. 

"But what I mean is, the things we work so hard for in life, they don't mean anything." Hamlet reached for the skull of the one the man had just opened. "I mean, this man, he probably went to school, worked hard, tried to make as much money as possible, to look good and wear the nicest clothes, and for what? To be buried next to his brother who didn't do half as much? And they all look the same. Just empty skulls."

The man looked at him, seemingly unimpressed by Hamlet's philsophy. "That was a woman."

He could hear Tia's snicker from outside the cold marble.

"Who is this anyways?" Hamlet asked. The man inspected the slab that usually covered the body's small shelf.

"Says here this was a 'Louisa Yorrick.'"

"No--" Hamlet looked for himself at the name. "This was my nanny, growing up."

"Who did you say you were?" the man asked.

"I didn't say," Hamlet countered. "And neither did you."

"Fair enough."

He held the skull up for inspection. "Damn, Yorrick, you look awful."

He remembered her as old, but he didn't remember her death. She simply faded from his existance. Had he ever thanked her for the years of companionship? Did he ever say goodbye? A new guilt ate away at him. 

"She was always laughing-- when she wasn't screaming at me for running away or eating too many cookies. My father hired her as a favor. She was out of work; I don't know what she did originally but she was a hell of a nanny. No one else could have kept me in line like she did."

"Sounds like a hell of a woman."

"Her husband was awful to her though. I remember that. He isn't in here is he?"

The man pointed out a second tomb. "We put the married ones next to one another."

"That's not right," Hamlet said, running a finger along her cheekbone. "She used to come in with bruises on her face. Mother would put makeup on her, just to keep people from talking." He turned back to check the status of the sunrise and found Tia leaning on the doorframe, concern on her face.

"Is this what my father looks like?" Hamlet asked her.

"Probably something close to it."

"And does he smell this awful?"

Tia gave a weak smile at his joke. Hamlet gave the skull back to the man.

"Will it be a busy day today?"

"One funeral this early this morning."

"Why so early?"

"The family is trying to keep it a secret. A damned suicide," the man said. 

"A man?"

"Nope."

"So a woman?"

"Nope."

"Then who?"

"Someone who used to be a young lady, but bless her heart, is dead now."

"You don't see the dead as people," Hamlet observed.

"You can't," the man said, turning around. "Otherwise, this job is awful. You spend all day violating people and stuffin' them into coffins and little spaces like this. The dead are just shells. Shells of people who are in better places now."

"Thank you," Hamlet said, smiling.

"Of course, Mr. Hamlet."

"So you knew?"

"Only one person in this town can afford a nanny, sir."

Hamlet left the man to work and slipped back out into the morning air. 

Tia was waiting for him, watching the incoming funeral procession. It was small, but moving quickly, like they didn't want to be seen in the graveyard.

"Hamlet, that funeral is--"

"That's Claudius' BMW," Hamlet said. "I'm going."

"Hamlet, no--"

He jogged down the path, Tia on his heels. He hid behind a masoleum, watching as a crowd assembled around the plot that Ophelia's mother was buried at. It had to be Polonius' funeral. If he could find Ophelia, he could give her a proper goodbye. 

Laertes stood beside a priest, who looked foreign in this graveyard that Polonius had had such a monopoly over. They whispered furiously back and forth. Hamlet searched for Ophelia, but found only his mother and uncle in a crowd of strangers.

"That's not fair," Laertes shouted. "Just because it was a su-- su--" 

Claudius was at his side almost instantly, pulling him away. 

"Calm down, Laertes. This isn't the time for a scene."

"Wait--" Hamlet turned around, looking at Tia. Behind him, the priest began the ceremony. "The man said it was a woman."

"Yes," Tia nodded.

"And-- and a suicide."

"That's not Polonius then."

"No, Hamlet, it's not."

He didn't feel shock. He understood; they had been through so much, only she had been able to do the one thing he wanted to. For a moment, he believed her to be braver. Sure, there was bravery in facing death, but to continue to face the unpredictablity and chaos of life was far more impressive. He had survived this far. He had faced overwhelming loss and done horrible things, but at least he was here. He was fighting.

But still, the idea of her being gone, Ophelia, the girl he had grown up with, the girl he had watched from an unbearable distance for so long, was gone. 

"With her father and you--"

"Me? Me? Do not blame this on  _me_ ," Hamlet hissed. "I did nothing, I--"

"You broke her heart, Hamlet. Don't pretend you didn't."

"She made her own decision."

"Because you weren't there to stop her."

"Hamlet?" This was the real Tia, shaking him as he snapped back to reality. "Who were you talking to?"

"You-- I heard--" He backed away from her, confused and dazed. 

He just needed sleep, he told himself. He needed another one of the pain pills the hospital gave him. He needed to see Ophelia.

"Hamlet?!" A chorus of graveside mourners called out his names, to differing degrees of surprise. He snapped back to reality and found himself one misplaced footstep away from her grave, already filled with her coffin and a few handfuls of dirt. Claudius was by far the most surprised to see him.

"Get away from my sister," Laertes snapped.

"She's dead," Hamlet mumbled. "I can't believe--"

"Don't act surprised," Laertes said, stepping forward. "You drove her to this madness."

 

"Me? Me? Do not blame this on  _me_ ," Hamlet hissed. "I did nothing, I--"

"You broke her heart, Hamlet." Another punch. "Don't pretend you didn't."

"She made her own decision."

"Because you weren't there to stop her."

He put his arms up to block Laertes' blows but he did nothing to stop them. He seemed to every place that already hurt from the car accident. Hamlet fell to the ground and Laertes met him there.

"I would never hurt her," Hamlet insisted. "Laertes, you know that."

And then he saw it coming-- a blow that was going to kill him. It was going to cave his skull in, killing him instantly. Laertes' aim would be true and his punch was going to be relentless. 

He breathed in, closed his eyes.

The words on the mausoleum flashed in his mind.

_Hamlet_

_Hamlet_

_Hamlet_


	15. Act V, Scene i

The blow never landed.

The weight of Laertes sitting on his stomach was lifted, and he could hear his shouting grow fainter and fainter.

He slowly opened his eyes to find his mother standing over him. She looked almost angelic, glowing in the early morning sun. He laid on the ground for an eternity, as she stroked his tangled hair away from his face.

"She's really gone, isn't she?"

A sob escaped Gertrude's lips, which she silenced with a forced smile to comfort him.

"Yes, my dear."

"Laertes is right. I caused it."

"Hamlet--"

"No. I'm the reason Polonius is dead, so I'm the reason Ophelia is dead." He bit down on his lower lip to stiffle the tears threatening to overcome him. "I'm no better than him," he mumbled to himself. He pushed himself up to his elbows. The funeral crowd had mostly dispersed. The gravedigger was lowering her coffin into the ground. He watched with disgusted rapture; the same behaviors that had seemed so humerous to him minutes earlier were now careless and disrespectful. 

When he finally stood up, Tia was at his side, supporting him. A few of the old wounds had reopened, making his extended stay in the hospital seem so pointless. If he had been here, he could have stopped her. He could have spared Laertes another unnecessary death. 

"Let's get you back to Elsinore," Gertrude said, walking him back to the car. 

The ride back was silent, with Tia's eyes watching Hamlet the entire time, like she expected him to explode at any second.

Gertrude sent him away immediately to go shower and change. 

His room felt foreign, even though it had only been a few days. When he realized the bed had been slept in, he tore it to pieces, looking for more evidence of who had been there. He found a note under the pillow.

_Hamlet,_

~~_I wish you had never left four months ago._ ~~ _I wish I could have followed you to wherever you went four months ago._

_I wish I could have understood then what you were going through. I understand now._

_But I can't do what you're doing. You are hurting too many people with your grief. I know I would do the same thing if I stayed. So I have to go, but I know you understand. You're the only one who will. Laertes won't understand._

_You have to make him understand, Hamlet. Make him see why I did this. ~~Losing both you and my father~~_

_You taught me to love that river. I remember watching you and Laertes climbing the trees around it and splashing through the water. I don't think you knew I was watching. And then, years later, after our first "date" you brought me to the river. It was so dark and I was terrified of what was out there. I was terrified of you. You seemed so unreal. And you kissed me on the riverbank for the first time. It feels like the only scene for my final act._

_You were always a god to me, Hamlet._

_All my love,_

_O_

"But you did hurt us," he sighed, falling back onto the bed. 

It was time to finish what he had started. 

There would be no more hesitations or excuses.

He would kill Claudius.

And then he would die.

...

Claudius had sent Laertes home to sleep off his anger after finalizing their plan.

He took Gertrude up with him, to counteract whatever Hamlet might throw at him, to propose "Laertes' idea".

The attic was destroyed when they arrived on the third story landing.

"Hamlet?" Claudius called.

There was a creak in the corner of the room, and they saw him in a desk chair, an unfolded newspaper, upside down, obscuring their view of his face.

"Hamlet," Gertrude repeated. He turned around, lazily dropping the newspaper. Atop his head sat a crown, cheaply made, and crooked.

"Your Majesties," Hamlet said, ducking low in the chair. He smirked.

"You have some nerve, boy--" Claudius started.

"You're right," Hamlet nodded, taking the crown off and tossing it like a Frisbee at Claudius, who caught it. "It's rightfully yours." The plastic crown clattered to the ground.

"Why I ought to--" 

Hamlet jumped to his feet, suddenly eager. 

"Please do," he said. "Finish what your boys started."

"Claudius," Gertrude warned, placing her arm out in front of him. "We're here about Laertes?"

"Oh, did you get the feeling he liked Ophelia a bit more than a sister, too?"

They were stunned silent.

"I mean, think about it," Hamlet said. Claudius blinked a couple of times; his lunacy had reached new heights.

"He wants to settle his issues with you," Gertrude slowly said. "He wants to move on, so he proposed a fight."

"A fair one, I hope."

"Yes. At the gym," Gertrude said. "Officiated."

"And who will you be rooting for?" Hamlet asked, looking at Claudius.

"I'll cheer for an end to this senselessness."

"Senseless? That implies that there's no reason for what we're doing, and that's simply not true."

"Do you agree, Hamlet?" Gertrude asked.

"Sure. What's one more bruise?"


	16. Act V, Scene ii

The place was just like he remembered it; a glorious ring where he and Laertes had beat each other to hell in the name of hypermasculinity and pride. Even after they had stopped being friends, they still found each other face-to-face in the county's only boxing ring. His father had hired a coach to teach Laertes and him how to roughhouse in a more constructive and controlled manner. To no one's surprise, Laertes, leaner and faster, was the better boxer. Today, he also had unbridled rage on his side. 

Hamlet hadn't slept all night. His mind was flipping through memories of Ophelia and each one made the pain worse. 

When he saw the first semblence of the sun, he rose and got dressed, spending the rest of the morning at a tiny diner across the county. It had been one of the few places in his life that was only  _his_. 

His last meal was scrambled eggs, french toast, and chocolate milk.

He showed up at the last possible minute. The ring had a single soul in it, but the building was packed. It fell silent when he entered.

He was too exhausted to put up a smirk or find some way to keep up his air of insanity. He just kept his eyes on Laertes as he walked towards the ring. His old coach intercepted him before he could reach the ring though. Age hadn't been kind to him; it had softened him both physically and mentally.

"Are you sure you want to do this, boy?"

Hamlet nodded.

"It's just-- Well, Laertes, he always beat you."

"I don't plan on changing that today," Hamlet said, pushing past him. He climbed into the ring, and approached Laertes.

"You should know something," Hamlet said, softly so the crowd couldn't hear, no matter how hard they strained. "I blame myself. I know I did her wrong. If I could change anything, I wouldn't ask for more money or my dad back. I would ask for Ophelia. But killing me today, that won't bring her back. If it could, I'd kill myself."

"You can't talk your way out of this," Laertes said.

"I'm not trying to."

They walked away from each other, towards their respective corners. Tia stood at the base of his, her eyes shining up at him. 

"Hey," Hamlet said, taking a deep breath. Neither of them were really ready for this. 

"Were you trying to piss him off or talk your way out of this?"

"Neither," Hamlet said. 

"Just don't let him kill you."

"Tia, I--"

"Save your touching goodbye for when I leave next week, yeah?"

He turned around to face death, and found the scared face of a little boy he used to know. 

They approached one another at the cue of the referee.

"Three rounds, keep it clean," the ref instructed. 

A whistle blew, but it sounded distant. 

Laertes didn't hestitate; he flew towards Hamlet immediately, running through a familiar routine of punches and kicks. Hamlet parried each one with ease. 

A right hook.

A high kick.

A stomach punch.

A sweeping kick.

He was pressing Hamlet back towards a corner, where he wouldn't have anywhere to go. Hamlet dropped, summersaulting away from Laertes. Laertes whirled, straight back to the offensive. But this time, Hamlet held his ground. 

It was a lucky hit that ended the first round. 

Laertes had let one side slip, and wasn't ready for Hamlet to switch to the offensive. But it was a clear shot, clean, a hit to stomach that left Laertes sprawled on the ground, trying to find his breath. 

Hamlet retreated to his corner, no desire to gloat over his small victory, taking a water bottle from Gertrude, who had appeared at Tia's side. 

"Come on, you coward," Laertes called from behind him. Hamlet looked over his shoulder, and tossed the water bottle back down. He approached the center of the ring again, squaring up for a second round.

"Gertrude, no!" All attention snapped to Claudius, having risen from his seat in the bleachers.

"It's just water, Claudius," Gertrude said, with a laugh, taking a sip from Hamlet's bottle. Claudius fell back into his seat, looking shrunken and defeated. 

"Alright," the ref said, calling attention back to the main attraction. "Round two."

At the whistle, Laertes' strategy had not changed. He came for Hamlet again, with heightened intensity and a different routine. Hamlet couldn't block every blow, taking a knee to the stomach that sent him staggering back into the cornerpost and to his knees. Laertes kicked him across the face, sending him facedown on the mat. 

Another whistle.

Hamlet struggled to his hands and knees. Tia was looking right at him.

"Stop this," she said. "He's going to kill you."

He shook his head and pulled himself up using the cornerpost. Every part of his ached.

If Laertes wanted a fight, then why should Hamlet spare him one? 

"Winner takes all," the ref said, when Hamlet finally made it to the center. Hamlet raised his fists, ready. 

Laertes was slower, having burned off his adrenaline in the first two rounds. Hamlet upped his offense, taking risks and throwing punches when he could. 

The round dragged on, with both of them being too good at defense for the other to land any good blows. About a minute in, Laertes' foot slipped and Hamlet caught him off-balance and a punch on the side of his jaw, sending him down. 

The ref blew the whistle, but Laertes climbed to his feet, ready for another round. He managed to claw his hands down Hamlet's chest before Hamlet took his hands and pushed him back. A knife clattered to the ground, and Hamlet snatched it up.

"Why are you so angry?" Hamlet demanded before slashing the knife along Laertes' arm. "An eye for an eye; your father would understand."

The ref caught him and pulled him away. Laertes spat at him as Hamlet pocketed the knife. The knife had managed to tear through his shirt and break through the skin. Laertes stumbled into the corner.

The scratch stung, and he held one hand over the mark as the ref held up his hand in victory.

It didn't feel like a victory, because he kept his eyes on Laertes' terrified face. 

"Oh, God!" screamed Claudius from the side. 

Hamlet rushed to the edge of the ring. Gertrude had fallen in Tia's arms, her face transforming from pearl white to an awful shade of purple. 

"What's wrong with her?" Hamlet asked, jumping down to Tia's side. 

"I mean, it looks like she's choking, but she didn't ingest anything," Tia said, hurriedly. "Someone call 911!"

"She's not choking," Claudius said, stumbling to her side.

"What did you do?" Hamlet demanded. Claudius was lost for words, his jaw trembling like he was just on the verge of speaking. Hamlet caught him by the collar and pulled him close. "You fix this."

"There's nothing I can do," Claudius said. "She's dead-- you-- you're all going to die."

Hamlet pulled the knife out and Claudius to his feet. 

"I know you killed my father. You tried to kill me. You won't take my mother too."

"I've killed you as well, Hamlet," Claudius said, with mourning in his voice. "Oh, God, oh, God."

Hamlet put the knife to Claudius' neck and the old man struggled to pull away.

"No, no, you don't run away this time," Hamlet said. 

"Hamlet!" Tia cried. He didn't look back, he couldn't, not when he was face-to-face with the man who had taken too much from him.

"Why did you do it?" Hamlet demanded. "The money? My mother?"

"He had everything I wanted," Claudius sobbed. "I just-- I wanted to be like him."

"And when you couldn't, you decided to take his life from him. Just so you could have it."

"I wish I hadn't, I really do--"

"No. You don't regret anything. I heard you in the study. You just wish he didn't have to die for you to have it all. You don't regret killing my father. You'd do it again if you could. You tried to kill me to make sure you'd be safe."

Pain shot down his chest and he gasped.

He didn't have a choice anymore.

He slit his uncle's throat and let him drop.

"Hamlet!" Tia's voice was a scream now.

He rushed back to his mother's side, but she was still now.

He was too late for her, like he was too late for his father.

He fell upon her body, wrapping his arms around her.

He had no words.

No more tears.

His breath grew short and staggered. 

Behind him, Laertes stumbled into the the ropes.

"Hamlet-- It was poison," Laertes gasped. Hamlet looked up at him. The color was draining from his face. He clutched the arm that Hamlet had cut. "In the water bottle-- on the knife-- There's no antidote-- Claudius, he-- He said it was the only way to-- get revenge-- I'm sorry-- Hamlet--" He slid down the ropes until he was seated, leaning against them for support. "I'm so sorry."

Purple took over his complexion and Hamlet watched as his best friend took his last breath.

Tia sat him back, pulling him away from his mother. 

They leaned against the ring, Hamlet's head resting against her side.

"I'm going to die," he realized, quietly.

"Shh, the paramedics are on their way. Hamlet, keep breathing."

"Tia, my sappy speech--"

"No, save your breath."

He closed his eyes. He felt surrounded in chaos but enveloped in peace.

"My father-- He'll be happy," Hamlet mumbled.

"Yes," Tia said. 

"Claudius can't be in the family mauseleum," Hamlet said. "Okay?"

"Hamlet--"

"Tia, you have to-- you have to listen."

"Okay."

"And you take Elsinore."

"You can't give me the house, Hamlet."

"Yes, I can. My father gave it to me in the will until my mother passed. She's gone. It's mine. And I'm-- I'm giving it to you, okay?"

"Oh, okay."

"Protect it. Protect us."

A warmth was flooded his body, but he shivered.

"Oh, God, Tia, this is it."

"Hamlet-- Hamlet."

_Hamlet._

_Hamlet._

_Hamlet._

 


	17. Epilogue

She climbed the steps of Elsinore with a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder. 

She hadn't planned on coming home this early but a minor stint in the hospital had ended her tour early. She knocked on the door and heard an immediate stampede coming towards the front door. It was thrown open by three pairs of hands of varying sizes, which were immediately thrown around her legs.

"You're home!" came the chorus of little voices.

Down the hall was the man of her dreams, a high school crush turned soulmate. He was attempting to be angry at her surprise homecoming, but his excitement was too great to be torn down. She watched him approached with an apology in her eyes and a smile on her lips.

"Hi," Tia said to her family. It felt like the heaviest word she knew.

This was probably the happiest moment this halls had ever witnessed. The chaos and laughter her kids caused was probably the loudest and messiest that Elsinore had ever been. The maids had been let go when the deed changed hands. The house had been empty for the interim years between Hamlet's death and her marriage to Robert. The morgage threatened to kill her finances at first, but the Hamlet family lawyer had pulled money from Hamlet's inheritance to cover the upkeep of the house and grounds. It would be a shame to let the estate's centuries of history crumbled in the wake of the tragedies of a single day.

She never felt worthy of Hamlet's final gift to her or the fact that she managed to escape the slaughter. The death of Hamlet Sr. had taken six more lives. Some days it felt like a senseless tragedy. Other days it felt like a necessary evil, to remind the town of their pettiness and closed minds. Not that they had really learned, but for a moment, they had made some sort of revelation.

Feuds remained. Gossip still weaved its way through streets. And the graveyard on the edge of town still stood, accumulating the victims of their hate.

But as for her and her house, they forgave and forgot. They learned about the crimes committed on the grounds of Elsinore, about the spirits that still seemed to occupy the mansion, but they move on. 

Only one remnant of Hamlet remained in the house. In the office hung a picture, inconspicuous to the casual visitor but enrapturing for Tia. It was taken a year before that awful summer; her and Hamlet, his arm thrown around his shoulder, after running in a charity marathon. In that moment they had felt an invincibility that verged on immortality. 

That had been ten years ago. 

* * *

> “What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”   
> \- William Shakespeare,  _Hamlet_


End file.
